


Songs Made on The Meteor

by apocalypticTaco



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Illustrated, M/M, Meteorstuck, Music, POV Alternating, every once in a while that is, oh it starts mid meteor journey btw should i mention that, pesterlogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypticTaco/pseuds/apocalypticTaco
Summary: Once the train of aimless tree blabber has left the station, you remember why you agreed to meet up in the first place. Leaning forward to sit up properly, you turn to Dave.“So,” you say, “what did you want to show me?”“Oh! Yeah, I forgot about that, sorry. The topic just fucking strayed from me like some kind of toddler seeing a candy store and waddling away from mom. Chubby little bastard gets me this time. Here.” He plops out one of those music tables onto his lap, and motions for you to come closer.-(It's music, and along the way they fall in love.)





	1. Karkat ==> DANCE EMOTIONALLY.

TG: choo choo  
TG: train car of hot ass incoming

The chalk from the drawn trees rubs onto your sleeve as you lie against the cold floor of Cantown, The Mayor stacking cans while your palmhusk pings lightly by your side. You don’t even need to check what the message is; you and Dave already agreed to meet up here earlier after he said that he wanted to show you something so fucking cool with the essence of strider that itll leave the entire meteor swooning. That, and you barely pester anyone but Dave anyway. (With the occasional exception of the opened group memo or announcement, of course. Your best interests lie on making sure you avoid those conversational clusterfucks as often as possible, even if you tend to end up getting dragged into them anyway.)

The mayor places down six more cans, and the sound of soft steps slowly crescendos, calling out Dave’s arrival. He enters into your peripherals, peeking in from the corridor. “Sup,”he waves. You hum and half-heartedly raise a hand in greeting. He floats up and around the can buildings in a charmingly careful attempt not to knock them over, gesturing at your sweater as you meet his eyes.

“You got a bit of chalk tree on your arms there, dog. Just pointing that out in case you weren’t planning to establish a chalk-karkat petri dish, originated from uncleanliness since sixteen-ninety-ass. The janitors and clean-crazed suburban moms and their sweet roomba children are weeping in distress. Somebody call the fucking dean, this _cannot_ be sanitary for baby Timmy. Linda’s husband is a lawyer, and she will not hesitate to press charges against a single hint of contamination.”

The Mayor rolls a piece of chalk towards you, and you pick it up with a nod of gratitude before you turn back to Dave.

“For your information and designation of pointing out what I couldn’t muster the strength to give a minimal shit for, I am fully fucking aware of what horrid things may be living and thriving on me. I can see the dust mites and grime engaging in worrying actions from such an intimate proximity to the fucking ground. I’m witnessing the disgusting result of no one knowing how to fucking sweep, and yet! And yet, my fucks remain stored away in my pocket to be given to anything else that's worth more importance.” You pause to take a breath, “the chalk trees unfortunately trapped under my ass will have to deal with my ungiven shits, but thank you for pointing out the visually obvious, Dave. Go draw yourself a star.” To emphasize, you take the chalk the Mayor gave you and draw a star shitty enough to be mistaken for a flower. Well, you made your point.

Dave continues to maneuver about the buildings, pausing to revolve in midair. “I never thought you’d be the type to ignore the can town ecosystem, Karkat. Global warming is real and the trees want to photosynthesize and be hugged and do plant stuff too. And sadly, they can’t, because your ass is depriving them from following their green dreams.” His shoe inevitably topples a stray can to the floor, but it is lost, unnoticed and oblivious to the neverending continuous, utterly vacuous debate that is shrinking your intelligence by the second. “Trees are pretty much nonexistent though, so I guess it wouldn’t really matter if you rubbed out a few of them anyway.” he adds.

He floats down to lie by your side as you prop yourself up on your elbows to face him. For some reason, he continues to fucking talk about trees, as if you’re incapable of drawing them back at any time. (Why don’t you? You probably should. The Mayor might like trees that don’t look like nebulous ass-rubbed smudges for once.)

“Still,” he continues, “what would the citizens think, Karkat? What would they say about this tree-ass blockade?” He pokes at your cheek to get your attention. You make a meager attempt to bite his hand.

“The citizens wouldn’t say shit because _nobody_ fucking _cares_ about rubbing out a few trees.” You gesticulate (with probably more dramatics than necessary), continuing. “Also, don’t fucking prod me with the bacteria infested appendage you call a finger. The only sole instance of a time where I saw water touch your palm was when you were drinking, and even then, it didn’t get wet. I don’t know what atrocious activities your hands have done, and I don’t want to discover through contracting the palm-hosted disease that’s just _waiting_ to happen.” You keep trying to poke his cheek back, but it’s a lot harder for you when you’re still leaning on your arms.

Dave ignores your last statement, dodging and scooting back. You note to retaliate sometime. “Okay, but consider: the citizens do say shit. What if they had a favorite tree? What then?? Maybe you just ruined some poor can kid’s favorite tree, and you didn’t even bat an eye. Poor fucking _Robert_ never had any friends in school and his only source of comfort was that smudged maple tree around the street corner. And one day he came back to see that the slightly smudged tree had become a fully fucked up tree, we’re talking fucked beyond oblivion, and it turned hells of indistinguishable like to the point where it's basically damn _gone_. That tree and him, they were getting so close too. You see, that’s when citizens would definitely say shit about that fucked up maple tree. They’d care so damn much the air would be saturated with emotional essence, dude. Little Rob wouldn’t stand for it. He’d throw up those banners and unite the whole town into saying so much shit toilets would be mandatory carry-ons.”

“Even if by any rare chance shit was to be said, we’d just _draw back_ the fucking tree, nutchuckle.” You retort. “Besides, can town has the pathetic population that consists of me, you, and the mayor. I doubt that any of us would create any emotional bond towards something that we tend to accidentally rub out every time our asses meet the floor.” 

“You don’t know me. Maybe I do have a favorite tree, and you just never knew.” Dave leans forward to flick your horn, then turns to the side, pointing to a smudged green abomination that looks suspiciously and unfortunately phallic. “See that? That’s my favorite tree.”

A fucking dick tree. It is simultaneously the most expected and disappointing thing you have ever laid your eyes on. You’re tempted to douse your eyes in bleach in hopes to rid it of the memory of such a horrid sight. Yet, one part of you wants to laugh, because Dave has a favorite tree. He has a favorite, and out of the multitude of other clumsily drawn chalk trees, his favorite is in the shape of a fucking human dick. You slap your hand to your face, making sure your palm covers the smile you refuse to let him have.

“Of course it is,” you sigh, “and fuck you for deeming a dick tree your favorite.”

“You’re just jealous you don’t have a tree as awesome as mine. Nothing beats it and its scientific ass name of _phallicus richardtree_. Rose suggested it.”

“My ganderbulbs just rolled so far back into my head that they landed right into my woeful thinkpan, and they refuse to come out so as to risk seeing such an utterly repugnant thing again.”

“We can share it if you want.”

“I can tolerate that.”

Once the train of aimless tree blabber has left the station, you remember why you agreed to meet up in the first place. Leaning forward to sit up properly, you turn to Dave.

“So,” you say, “what did you want to show me?”

“Oh! Yeah, I forgot about that, sorry. The topic just fucking strayed from me like some kind of toddler seeing a candy store and waddling away from mom. Chubby little bastard gets me this time. Here.” He plops out one of those music tables onto his lap, and motions for you to come closer. 

You’ve seen him fiddling with it at times, turning dials and twisting until he seems to come to a satisfactory stop and lies there bobbing his head. From what information you’ve gathered about it, the apparatus has something to do with music. From what you see of it, though, it’s hideous. (Maybe that’s ruder than anticipated, but your point still holds.)

What once was probably shiny metal is now dull and decorated with dents and scratches, although a couple polished spots show that it was at least tried to be kept presentable. Other than that, it’s about as useful as a steaming sack of shit to you. Still, the urge to ask him about it is tempting. 

(It’s really tempting.)

“What exactly do you even do with that crap?” You question. “I know it's for your quote unquote ‘jams’, but how and why? It’s all filled with protruding knobs and useless looking dials, and perhaps it may have looked attractive a few millennia ago, but now it just resembles the molted skin of a grub in need of moisturization. I’ve seen rainbow drinker movie covers more attractive. Watching _Twilight_ was probably more appealing than this.” You pause to regard Twilight. “Okay, maybe this isn’t as ill-favoured as Twilight, but I don’t see how any of this might even sort of relate to music. It’s been about a sweep and a half, and it's driving me fucking crazy.”

“It’s, uh,” he hesitates, gesturing over the multitude of knobs. “Actually, it’s just better if you listen.” A duplicate of Dave’s headphones are uncaptchalogued and slid it on top of your head, making brief contact with your horns in a clack. (Did he alchemize it ahead of time?) The soft plush of the headphones squish against your ears, and everything sounds muffled. There’s some dense silence for a moment, and you’re about to ask Dave what the fuck this is for when the edge of a soft beat whispers in your ear. You jump. 

Dave laughs and asks something, but you can’t fucking hear him. What the fuck. You try to say something to him, but he shakes his head in amusement and goes back to to his music. You decide to set your focus back as well.

Honestly, it’s way better than what you’ve expected. It’s nice, and meaningful, and slow, and it pulls you down into a blissful sort of comfort. A small click, and the frequency changes. Another beat gets added in time to the original, and the tune jumps with life, the feeling reverberating through your spine. In a way, it’s completely different than what you’ve expected, and yet so much better from the start.

Out in your peripheral, you see Dave flip a few more switches, and more accompaniment sounds gradually get mixed in, and you press your hands to the sides of the earphones to hear better because what the absolute fuck. _What the absolute fuck. It’s amazing._ The music sways and twists apart, only to later be pulled back together in an entwining trance and it just compels you to _move_. 

Move, like stand up and jump as if you don’t care about anything else in the meteor except for the beat. It makes you feel like the concept of god tier is bullshit because you feel like you can already fucking _fly_. Fly up, and along the way, maybe Dave’s hands, and swing around as you stomp your feet, and jump with every little drop and lift in the music and-

The track stops. And even if it hadn’t have stopped, that would’ve been dancing, and you know next to fucking nothing on how to dance, and you’re positive you would’ve make an absolute fool out of yourself. You noticed your foot was tapping though. You think you can go with that.

Dave’s hands brush your ears as your headphones are taken away (they fucking clack against your horns again. There has to be a way around that) and he snaps his fingers in front of your face. You’re unbelievably thankful that human ears couldn’t hear the sulking whine you just made (or that no other troll was there to witness you. You would’ve fucking died on the spot.)

Dave still persists in snapping, and you pretend to act nonchalant and not like you just had the fluid in your pan blown, taking his hand and moving it to the side.

“Stop snapping your digits, I’m fully capable of realizing you’re there without it. There’s no need to make an utter fool of yourself by clapping your fingers.”  
“Yeah I hear you bro, but first of all, it’s fun to see you irritated. Second, almost anything I do elicits a shitfit explaining how I look like a tool to you, so even if I do quit, me flying over you or eating a pop tart would still make me look pretty fucking ridiculous. Might as well have some fun with it.” Dave gives you a final few snaps of spite, and leans toward you.

“So,” he cracks a tiny smile. “What do you think?”

It was joyous, jumpy- it made you feel like a wriggler, giggling in euphoric obliviousness, only focusing on the moment at hand. It filled you with a sense of upbeat freedom, an enthralling need to move to your heart’s content, to act like you’re performing for no one but yourself. And maybe him. You take a moment to compose your thoughts.

“It was nice. Human music turned out to be a lot better than I expected.”

“Aw, come on, just nice?” Dave whines. “Not even a cool or a radical or an ‘omg Dave that music made me swoon, please take me and my scrawny ass and carry me in your arms right this instant’? That’s hella levels of unrighteous, Karkat. Dismissing your best bro’s music like that.”

Well, it did make you swoon, but you’re sure as fuck not admitting that anytime soon.

“You know, from unfortunately being exposed to Earth’s culture through your uncanny rooms and overly simplistic literature, _excuse me_ for not expecting your music to actually be enjoyable-” Dave jostles your shoulder. “No, don’t shove me, you know it’s true! But, if I have to admit it, yes it was pretty good.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” Dave says, beginning to bundle the wires. “You just don’t know the extent of how sick my jams are yet. It’s all good. One day you’ll see that these sick jams are out here catching fucking bronchitis. They’re just that full of this sicknasty virus, and now they’re doing some damn amazing kickflips and coughing everywhere.”

“I can agree with that,” you say. “They made me sick to hear too.”

Dave lets out a small laugh, a quiet hah that contrasts his typically monotone voice. You’ve learned to appreciate the gentle sound when it happens.

“Come on, bro, you just admitted they were good a few minutes ago. You just can’t roast it as well anymore once you’ve said you liked it. That’s just one hell of a contradiction,” Dave counters.

“Well, the ability to change your mind is a glorious concept, and guess what? I just did that! I changed my mind. I’ve decided that they’re so good that they’ve excellently made me nauseous. Fuck you,” You retort with a flourish of a certain finger.

“So you’re saying my jams are excellent now?”

“Shove your amazing jams into that hideous hole of yours and quit sniffing between the lines for compliments, Strider. Your ego doesn’t need to be raised another inch above the fucking atmosphere. It’s already suffocating from the lack of oxygen its been deprived of.”

Dave captchalogues the packed up wires and board with an acknowledging hum, and he pulls you up as you both start walking towards the transportalizer. After a flash of blinding light and the chill of rearranged atoms down your spine, you step off the platform and walk towards the hallway that leads to Dave’s room, a comfortable almost-silence surrounding you two. The only noise is the distant sounds of Terezi and Vriska yelling somewhere. Probably FLARPing. Dave slides in through his door as you reach his room and you lean against the wall in wait for him to finish doing whatever he needs to do. You hear a few items being rearranged with a few stray-minded mutters before he emerges, hands shoved in his pockets.

“So, you up to heading back to the main room and watching movies for a bit or nah? I promise I’ll let you take the pick this time,” Dave asks. You wonder why he still gives out the invitation. As if you would ever say no. You return his ever familiar question with a rare smile, grabbing his sleeve and beginning to head towards your favorite couch.

“Sure, let’s go.”


	2. Karkat ==> TRY YOUR HAND AT TURNTABLES (AND FAIL MISERABLY).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey before anything i just wanna thank my editor you rule id smash a wall for you

Throughout the next perigee or so you bury yourself with human music, which admittedly has a metric fuckton more variety when it comes to stuff like genres. All of the genres you knew of back on Alternia were deplorably few, limited to the few universal continuities of troll Adele and Beyonce, with the rest being (tragic) forced praises of song towards the condesce. You and Dave sit side by side on a couch positioned next to a table, Dave playing with  his “turntables” once again. You lean against him, songs pouring out of your freshly alchemized “iPod”. Dave and Rose compiled a series of artists for you to listen to, which involved shenanigans and nonsense in arguing who to let you listen to first.

 

(“Rose what the fuck don’t let him listen to MCR, before you know it he’ll be putting on alien eyeshadow or some goth shit and complaining about how only his sad romcoms understand him. As admittedly hilarious that might be, I don’t want to be the unfortunate witness to teen alien’s first goth phase.”

“Would you prefer he listen to Adele? You can’t just hide him from iconic, impassioned musical artists forever Dave. One day Karkat’s going to finish listening to every sick beat you have on hand and he’s going to inevitably go through all possible music genres. It’s only a matter of time, and I can’t wait to hear his thoughts on Lorde and Mary Lambert.”

“Would you two please shut your never-closing lips the fuck up? Why can’t I just listen to both if you’re so keen on getting me to listen to one or the other?”

“Karkat no just ignore Rose she’s trying to reel you into the forbidden goth phase-”

“Don’t listen to Dave, Karkat, I have an ineludible feeling you’ll greatly appreciate the departed musicians of our time.”)

 

Apparently, troll Adele is a universal being, only with different songs.

 

You uncaptchalogue your notepad and pencil to try and guess the troll parallel to _Turning Tables_ , and Dave nudges you to get your attention. Swaying happily, he holds out one bud of an earphone, a suitable alternative to the horn-clacking dilemma.

 

“Alright, take a fucking listen to this and tell me what you think,” he suggests. Interrupted while writing mid-sentence, you pretend to ignore the earphone, teasing until Dave’s dramatic pout reaches an apex and he starts attempting to fit the very offending object into your ear himself. You lightly slap his hand away before he damages your hearing and insert it in yourself, waiting to hear him play the track. You wait in the temporary silence, waiting to fall in love with the next song you’re probably going to secretly download and listen to on repeat in your room again.

 

This one holds a tune unique to the previous ones you’ve heard. Starting out with instrumental scratches and background clapping, it holds a hopeful, upbeat melody. Sparking a joyful fire within your bloodpusher, it sends unfamiliar tingles down your spine, proceeding to spread to every limb that you can think of. Dave’s tracks always held an intense, fierce sense of rhythm and tempo that urged you to move, but this one slows down the rush of constant thought that pounds through your head, calming you, and you droop your ears and smile at the feeling. The song is untroubled, willing to let you lay back, and feel the content little twirl of the universe. One constant that you notice about his tracks is the way they tend to play back on themselves, in a way. Adored tunes that make a quick turn backwards, while the main beat and vibes still revolve from a constant, reliable center. You take it and encompass yourself in the sheer magnificence of it all, sitting comfortably. And you relax, surrounded in trust and calm.

 

The song ends, and you revel in the drifting sensations of rest before you turn back to Dave, whose fingers are resting on the turntables, tapping in wait.

 

“Well?” Dave asks. He’s bending over backwards now, almost draping himself over the back of the couch in desperation for your input.

 

And it’s not even the first time; he _always_ does that. It’s like he’s trying to see if he can recreate the ouroboros pose from behind. That’s how you break your back, Dave. Keep it up if you want to see how far your vertebrae can dislocate, you careless, endearing twat.

Not that you always notice those details about him, he just does it so often it’s hard not to point it out. At least it probably neutralizes all of the slouching he does.

Not that you intended to notice that about him too. The lack of beings to socialize with and scenery to admire leaves Dave as your only source of close friendship and fun, which results in you noticing strange, but charming things about him. Which isn’t that bad, you guess, but you still have to pretend like it is for the sake of your dignity.

 

You feel a brief, then crashing mass of Dave on you as he stopped curling over the couch and apparently decided to drop his entire body weight on you. A pillow meets your face, and you use it to muffle your scream before turning your head sideways to breathe. Dave’s still waiting for your reply.

 

“Come _on_ dude, what did you think? I don’t want to spend the remainder of two years just waiting for one reply on a song. I have beats to mix, towns to can, various trolls and a sister to awkwardly acknowledge with a brief nod as I pass them on the hallways. I can’t just throw that away, imagine the nods I could’ve passed out in the minute and a half you’ve been silent for,” he presses for a response.

“Fine! Fine, for fuck’s sake. Is it too hard to just take a few minutes, no, _a mere minute and a half,_ to just think for a little bit? You impatient dick cluster. For a time player, you’re damn mighty impatient. I’ve seen pampered highbloods wait longer than you.” You pause to push Dave off of you and sit up.

“Regarding the music, though. I liked it. It was unprecedented, considering it sounded different from your usual area of songs.” Ha ha, you're barely holding yourself back from gushing your entire bloodpusher onto it.

 

“-So is that like a good fuckin’ revolutionary different or was it an ‘I decided to switch from my goth phase to emo and now I’m shopping at hot topic’ different?” Dave interrupts.

 

 _Fuck_ , he’s going to start rambling again. You decide to let him go on in his alien culture gap material before you continue.

 

“Because you know, every once in a while you just get the itch to try something different and maybe with that emo ID you can finally buy that ‘happy people scare me’ t-shirt.”

 

He’s gently gesturing with his hands as he prattles on. It’s kind of adorable.

 

“But then the next day you discover that it’s not just only happy people that scare you, it’s either selectively the concept of happiness or people and now you gotta go all introspective and reevaluate what phase you should go through to look back in hesitance as your sister shows you an image of the horrifying time when you painted on three square miles of eyeshadow on your face with your neon dyed hair that’s gelled to the fucking sky, glued and slapped onto the family album with that fucking smug grin on her phase as if she never had a photographed phase before-”

 

The maunder. The incomprehensible culture drivel. When will it end.

 

“But little does she know that you have a top secret stash of her selfies with 100% fully gelled zebra purple and pink hair just hiding in your closet for the perfect response to your own emo/goth phase image blackmail like a free fucking get out of jail card-”

 

Why the fuck would someone have an image stash of their hatchmate? Is this some weird privacy thing? How the shitting hell do humans work??

 

“-and now it’s just a competition to who has more embarrassing pictures of the other-”

 

Nope. Nope. As horribly endearing as it is, you’re afraid you’re either going to willingly pass out and smash your face to the floor, or wait a single second more and have the immense quantity of his words implode your thinkpan.

 

“Dave!” you finally cry out.

 

He keeps right on rambling, “-bastard got lucky this time, and oh, yeah?”

 

“It’s a damn good different, okay? I hate to admit it, but almost all of your songs are pretty damn fucking good. Next time, please don’t burst my thinkpan with all this human bullshit without giving me a forewarning so that I can get a cold compress and earmuffs.” That’s a partial lie. You do get lulled into a calm lethargy when he speaks, but you never actually get tired of his speaking. It’s practically been your background noise for so long, it’d feel too quiet without mumbled half-raps and aimless thoughts heard in your vicinity.

 

“Wait,” Dave begins, “you said almost all of my songs. Which ones are the exception?”

 

“The stupid appalling songs that are made with shits and giggles and are only useful exclusively for persuading your brain cells to take an inebriated trip to shangri-fucking-la and back, only to realize it’s still _playing and you haven’t had the common sense to spastically press the stop button yet_ and continue to disintegrate until you finally pay a favor to yourself by throwing the abomination to the void.” You reply.

 

“Fuck dude, if it made you flip your shit that much I could stop if you want.”

 

“I would be filled with bliss if you did. The music you actually put effort in sounds so much fucking better.” You profess, thinking for a moment.

“I like how you do the rewinding melding thing.”

 

“Oh, you mean _this_?” Dave turns the record and you hear an abrupt zip from the earbud that’s still in your ear. You jump.

 

“That shocked the living shit out of me and shocked those living shits back dead. _That’s_ what makes the music thing?” You’re in shock; it sounds so _loud_ and abruptly different on its own.

 

“I mean, I could show you how the ‘music thing’ works, if you want. Well like, not exactly now, my internal time clock tells me it’s pretty much snooze well or stay up late and sleep deprived decision time. But I dunno like maybe tomorrow or so, if you’re up to it I wouldn’t be against showing you the reigns of how shit works and all.” He shrugs with a tilted head, and your eyes might be might be deceiving you, but you catch a light pink dusting on his cheeks.

 

He isn’t wrong about it being late, in some sort of fucked up internal time clock; the tiredness creeps in on your slouch and drooping eyelids (except you don’t sleep. You barely sleep.) The offer does sound appealing, though, and maybe one part of you would be interested in finding out how he does it all.

 

“I guess I wouldn’t be loath to it.”

 

Dave smiles, and you manage to smile back.

 

“Sweet. It’s settled then. Music tutoring time with teacher Dave and his diligent student Karkat coming up soon.”

 

“Yeah, I guess it’s settled,” You finalize with a nod, stifling a yawn. “I don’t think I’m tired. Do you want to watch another movie?” There really isn’t much else to do on this meteor, sadly.

 

Dave shakes his head. “You saying you’re not tired is the most acrid rank bullshit I’ve ever smelled, and I don’t even have a special color-smelling nose.” He hesitates, sighing through his teeth. “I do know that you’re more likely to prance around in a tutu of sleepy denial rather than actually take doctor’s orders for once in your insomnolent life. I’m not tired either, so we might as well hit the hay and make the hay cry because we’re getting our awakened asses and movie marathon lineups in it without taking a siesta like it desperately wants us to.”

 

-

 

You both end up lying against each other by the second movie. Dave slumbers against you in the middle of movie three, and you stay awake watching the rest of the movies roll, feeling his steady breaths by your side.

 

-

Some amount of days later, you find yourself entering the common room in favor of the one utilitarian machine that soothes your existence. The button’s so fucking overused there’s a visible smooth spot right where you press it and lean against the counter to wait for the coffee to brew. As the machine begins to gurgle, you catch Dave working on his turntables again.

 

“Hey dipshit,” you greet.

 

He pauses in twisting a knob and takes off an earbud. “Hey pipsqueak. What’s up?”

 

“I’m contemplating how deep of a dark, depressing hole I’ve dug myself into to rely on a stupid machine for providing me with my one source of energy throughout the day.”  


“Sounds shitty, but that’s just how it is on this bitch of a meteor I guess.” He nods solemnly. “By the way, do you still want to learn how to work the tables? It’s another dull day and the equipment’s all here.”

 

The gurgling sounds have stopped, and you take your steaming mug of coffee and empty a few packets of sugar into it. “There’s nothing new and better to do in this miserable trip. I might as well see how bad I can royally fuck up music,” you say, taking the mug and walking over to the table to stand next to Dave. He moves aside and pats the newly abandoned bit of space.

 

“You gotta sit in front to properly handle these hot beats, bro. Take care of them, we’ve gotten close over the many soft and tender turning times. Me and these turntables have been through rough and gentle, musicking through life. We’ve been making sentimental memories of the tender record touches, the many amorous beats we made together _and I’m_ going to stop right about now and you’re going to pretend I didn’t Freud my way into implying I’ve been fucking my beats, no matter how good they may be.” He sighs sadly.

 

You take a sip from your mug, and set the coffee aside; you can always heat it up later.

 

“You’re lucky I have enough fortitude to ignore that mile of verbal affliction you just laid upon me,” you respond and sit down. Dave watches in anticipation.

 

It’s only when you take your place in front of the turntables and lightly set one hand on the record when you realize that you have no idea as to what the fuck you are doing. Too many dials, too many switches, one fucking idiotic pan that unfortunately belongs to you.

 

“How the fuck do I operate this? Can my bewildered self see a manual?”

 

“Yeah well,” Dave begins, “the only manual you have is me, so get ready to open me up and read me. Fuck. Well, I guess each thing has its own list of functions, but honestly you learn best from trying them out yourself.”

 

He takes hold of your wrist, and leads it to point out, touching the different features, explaining the uses along the way. It’s a pity that you’re getting distracted by the feeling of his hand on yours instead of trying to comprehend what he’s teaching your diverted ass. Why are you paying so much attention to this, anyway? You’re pretty sure you’re not touch starved, so why the hell does skin contact feel so tingly and flustering?

 

“Well, that’s the simple stuff, or just the things that I can explain to you,” he ends, (thankfully!) interrupting your thoughts. “There’s a bit more for some of the intricate stuff but getting the basics down should be good enough for your first lesson. Papa John didn’t start out spinning pizzas like the Olympic discus games. Everyone starts out at that greasy school mystery pizza friday level until you and I get sick of eating unpalatable talent and decide to move on. Sorry school lunch, we’d rather go eating the oil-infested waters of chuck-e-cheese from now on.”

 

You grimace.  

 

“That sounds revolting. Every time you talk about Earth food I get more and more convinced that your food is so abhorrent it’s only a miracle your insides haven’t rotted.”

 

“Says the species that eats baby loaf for breakfast.” He lets go of your hand (wow, you never thought you would miss the feeling of grimy calluses on your wrist, what the fuck) and leans forward to play the same music track from yesterday and prods you forward to try it out.

 

It’s only a matter of a few minutes full of bass boosted warping torture when Dave graciously comes to stop you for the sake of your auditory modality.

 

“Alright dude no offense, but I think you’ve managed to derail music so far off the track you put our rambling convos to shame and you’re just on the edge of inventing a brand new spanking auditory weapon.”

 

“Well I’m _sorry_ I’m not born a musical prodigy,” you defend, “how do I _not_ try and break our aural canals, then?”

 

“Obviously just explaining how things work doesn’t do shit, so. Just, uh, here.” He hovers his arms around you, deciding if such sorry, adorable bastards as him are allowed to touch you (like he hasn’t prodded you innumerous times before) and decides fuck it and practically embraces you, placing his hands on yours as if it was a reenactment of your lusus teaching you how to hold your sickle. Breathing normally is suddenly slightly harder than before. Your arms being moved against your own volition brings you back to reality.

 

“Right-o, so first we’re going to try to fix the fuck up that was your attempt at spinning up sick beats. Let’s try and adjust the levels that made it sound like your downright irksome neighbor Carl and his frat boys blasting nightcore ra ra rasputin next door just to keep you up at night.”

Eventually, you were able to get your breathing back to a normal pace, with a lot of mental yelling to shape your shit and feelings up. You confess that the extraordinary track you ended up with was more Dave’s doing than yours, but you think you had fun.

 

An admittedly enormous amount of fun, actually.

 

Dave coils up the wires and captchalogues it all, and you both say your goodbyes with the promise to watch a movie later. You also assure Dave that you’ll try to get some sleep for once.

 

Regardless, you end up lying awake in your soporless cocoon, listening to downloaded tunes on your palmhusk. The lingering feeling of Dave covers your hands throughout the night.

 

You don’t quite fall asleep, but the music he made lulls you into a soothing calm that just might be close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that like 3ks still pretty little in comparison to some downright Wholesome chapters in some fantastic fics that hold a shocking amount of words (like ranging from 5-80k can you believe it theyre so talented this is a shoutout to my author friends yall inpired me and ilyall im super sappy today lmao (yall know who you are)) but hey im getting better arent i lmao
> 
> also im lying on my bed crying (sitting in my chair emotionally typing) tysm so much for the ENDLESS amount of comments youve left jsyk i spent at least five minutes crying over each one before i wiped the tears from my eyes and composed myself enough to type a coherent response lmao yallre great i hope you have a good day  
> next chapters probably gonna take some more time since this fics turning out to have more chapters than intended and im gonna have to do this one from scratch but hey  
> 1) itll be daves pov and im excellent at channelling that striderian ramble so maybe it wont take that long once i beat school back into the grimy creativity-restraining a-hole it came out of and  
> 2)comments motivate me to write like 550 more words at that very second so wink wink compliment your crying author to get her to stop crying and start that think process  
> anyway thats about it for now i hope yall have a great 413 and remember to self care
> 
> edit: i forgot the song im dreadfully ashamed rip [heres this chapters song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5M9rVErDRc) and just in case you havent heard of adeles turning tables [ heres that too i love adele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsFCO8-oCEQ)


	3. Dave ==> get your best bro to fucking sleep for once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 612 heres this well overdue update its in daves pov this time because i wanted to try my hand at rambling lmao  
> also thanks @ jay for editing this for me you rule a hecka ton

For the most part, you usually aren’t the one to go to when it comes to sleep. Honestly, you’re damn near the exact opposite. Anyone could ask you a question about the ‘do’s’ and ‘don'ts’ of sleep, and you wouldn’t know where to start about the most miniscule fucking thing.

 

Now, if you went to Jade and asked _her_ about conking the fuck out, then damn, you could probably get an intellectual answer out of her. She knows sleep like she does it every day- which, well, she does. She has a scholarship and fresh out of Harvard, rocking PhDs on slumbering, atomic theory and probably other smart shit that you take five minutes to comprehend.

 

Compared to you, that shit’s like trying to explain to your big toe the mechanics of the universe. Your inexperienced brain’s babbling fucking jargon, trying to make sense of how in the utter hell your snoozing times got as bewilderingly uncoordinated as the dripping of the mysterious substance down the hall.

 

What the fuck is that, anyway? It looks like what you’d expect to see out of a rotten egg, and it smells like it got sprayed by every perfume sample in the makeup store, except the perfume bottles were filled with eau de sewer and the luxurious scent of ‘toilet after eating a three day old taco aftermath’. You’re half expecting it to grow legs and walk over to drop its oozing spores onto you while you sleep.

 

You hella wish it was gone, but poison control's above your pay grade, and it’s best if you just stay out of the way.

 

You’ll cross that bridge when you get to it. The point is that despite knowing jack fucking shit about a proper good night’s rest, no one in this near-empty rock needs to be an expert to know that Karkat’s sleep schedule is downright heinous. Straight up illegal. Sliding into the police station and farting loudly kinds of unlawful. That’s exactly how it is. As much as you appreciate Karkat in all his crabby glory, he’s walking into the movie room with sleep deprivation emanating off of him in steady waves, signaling out the sos morse code because there’s no way that he can be fine after staying up for that long.

  
You notice this for the thousandth time as he drags his sleep deprived ass in, hunched and grinding his teeth as he fails to stifle a yawn. He heads straight for the coffee machine, ignoring his ultimate bro for the ultimate energy hitch (ouch), as per usual.

 

You call out his name, and he doesn’t answer. You say it again, louder and longer, and he grunts in tired response, pressing the brew button.

 

It’s only during the seventeenth time when you call out Karkat in the loudest voice you can manage, stretching out each vowel and drumming on the troll book cover you’ve been vandalising when he finally cuts you off with an exasperated groan.

 

“I heard you the first fucking ass-staining time, Dave! Would it be fucking possible to just wait?! My aural canals have hunched so far into themselves that they’re trying to come out of my _ass_ , just to escape from _your_ infuriating blathering!” He pauses to take a breath and wrangle the air in front of him, the coffee in his mug sloshing in his hand.

 

“I thought it wouldn’t be possible to get so pissed over hearing your own name, since it’s the one thing all universal species are probably hardwired to tolerate due to an entire lifetime’s worth of hearing, but yet! My God, you just discovered the way to make me get tired of hearing my own fucking name!” He downs the entire cup, ongoing in his drinking rage.

 

“And I never fucking thought that was possible! Youmf-” Oh damn, he chugged too much. He pounds his chest a few times before coughing out whatever remaining spit ground residue is left and then turns to the side to go fill a glass of water. He’s struck silent for a second, eyes wide with mild shock. “I nearly choked myself to an ungodtiered-insurance death. I was a drop’s width away from going down in the dreambubbles as the troll with the most idiotic way to die.”

 

That’s a little bit of a lie. You’ve both gone through various iterations of this good morning routine a few times before. He trudges in with fatigue, you get his attention with whatever you can come up with at the time, and he throws a fit after getting his bean energy drink to energize him up for his first rant of the day. You could almost consider it your weekly routine. The excessive coffee chug and chokes have been a recent development, though. Mainly because he hasn’t been sleeping and you’re the only one who cares enough to notice and bug him about it.

 

“I’m pretty sure you’re immune to death via hacking out coffee flecks, dude. The grinds have mingled in with your bloodstream, causing a magical girl-style anime transformation, complete with sparkles and shooting neon lights. Now your superpower is gulping coffee without dying, no matter how many times it’s tried to take a detour up your nose and down your lungs.”  


“That doesn’t push aside the fact that every time I do ‘gulp coffee without dying,’ my pulmonary vessels feel like they’re about to die!”

 

“But you’re not about to die via coffee, because you would forcibly CPR-style breathe life into yourself to escape living with the fact that you bean-guzzled yourself into the dreambubbles.”

 

Karkat  raises a finger and hesitates before slowly lowering it and taking a tentative sip of water.

 

“Well, yeah, you’re right about that. But can we just course correct this topic on how you called out my name _twenty fucking times_ when instead, you could’ve just waited until I got enough energy into my blood system to respond after just saying my name _once?”_ he says, walking to sit down beside you. “I would’ve thought you had enough observational skills to notice that I couldn’t give a shit about anything else other than caffeine in the morning.”

 

“Oh yeah, I noticed, but it’s still fun to see you flip your shit and then your coffee every time. Also, speaking of flipping your shit,” you say, sliding the book you oh so endearingly decorated with glitter glue and scratch and sniff stickers. “I alchemized a copy of the book you’re currently reading and enriched it with the ironic adornment.”

 

Before you even manage show it to him, he immediately turns his face away and pointedly makes a show of not looking at your heartfelt gift.

 

“Nope! No! Fuck you sideways, upside down, and in every other conceivable position imaginable that doesn’t require me seeing whatever you made, because I can just _tell_ that the moment I spare the slightest glance at your possible created abomination I will immediately implode. My hands would, on instinct, grab the nearest platform to perform a next level facepalm and I would have the unfortunate object come into high speed contact with my face, killing me immediately. If the fucked up forces of gravity do not work in my favor to obliterate me upon contact, the least I could hope for is a bout of selective amnesia to immediately forget your _crime_ of vandalizing a work of _art._ I’m not going to see it Dave, because I will cry once I do. My tears would flood the room with the after-effects of the true criminal offense you’ve brought upon the only unfortunate witness to your shitty art.”

 

Instead of countering his tirade, you pick up the offending object and twist in front of him, plopping the book to the side of his face. His cheek smushes against the still moist glitter glue, and the faint outline of a glitter dick sticks onto his face as you redirect the book onto his lap where he is smoothly faced to view the cover.

 

Which is nearly a Louvre-worthy masterpiece, you think. The Dorito stains add in a nice authentic touch.

 

You get to slowly see his expression change from something of disgruntled sleepyhead to practically shitting out rage. He takes a few breaths and gestures with lividity, trying to express what could be unleashed as a tsunami of sleep deprived thought into shitfit poetry rants.

 

Surprisingly, he instead grabs the book, stands up from the couch, and starts stomping off down towards the transportalizer. You fly and and trail behind him, a bit dumbfounded by the turn of events.

 

“Hey, whoa, wait up—what the fuck? I was expecting a mini verbal explosion right there. I thought  a whole hammer slam of word scramble was going to sucker punch me straight into next week, putting me out of commission and having to explain to our future selves why the fuck did I just appear on the floor all battered up looking like a typewriter decided to get pokey with me. I had my day-old stale popcorn ready-” he emits an “ew” of disgust, as if he doesn’t have that molding salami that you _know_ he’s procrastinating on throwing out “-and ready to eat as I sat back on the theatre seats on Karkat Squawks About Another Piece Of Art, playing on a nonexistent Blockbuster near you.”

 

You continue rambling on until you barely pay attention to what you’re saying, just talking to fill the silence. Maybe if you prod Karkat enough he might explain what he plans to do with the new and improved book cover of _troll romance makeout novel, edition #69._

 

He finally stops and you bump into him, looking around to discover that he lead you outside onto a balcony, a half deteriorated railing being the only barrier towards falling multiple meters down towards the ground. He squints, facing you with a determined look in his eyes.

 

“I’m going to throw this book off into the farthest reaches of the abyss, because nobody else needs to see what a visually repulsive monstrosity this is.” He flips the book around to show the back cover, which you taped a gluestick to. You’re proud of thinking that up; it’s pretty fucking hilarious when you take a moment to consider and appreciate the certain brand of irony.

“Maybe,” he continues, vigorously pointing at the cover, “once I get to gleefully see this desecrated book sail away out of my sight forever, it might hit Jack and stall him along the way, therefore bringing even more reason to do so.”

 

He stops shaking the book to roll his eyes at himself. “Of course, there’s an incredibly slim chance that would ever happen, but I can dream.”

 

You show a hint of a smile in support and give a thumbs up.

 

“Don’t let your dreams be dreams, Karkat. Yeet that tattooed novel into the spacial horizon like two dude bros high fiving and being blown back by the sheer power of the high five in itself. They’re fucking sailing away from each other at optimal velocity, increasing in distance but never letting their bond dwindle. So close, yet so far away.” You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about right now, but you decide to continue while Karkat grins in wild determination and makes a short run to the end of the platform.

 

“Just so you’re aware,” you call out, “it’s most likely just gonna be stray debris floating in wait until a dreambubble comes to collect it. And then when it does, it's just going to knock some dead ghost’s head and let them see the majesty that is this hellacious piece of art.”

 

Karkat ignores your statement, stopping just by the flimsy railing and flinging the book with all of it’s might. Thanks to the meteor’s weak gravity, the book manages to sail away, and you both watch it slowly disappear like parents seeing their kid drive away to shitty book college, tears in your eyes, Karkat’s from relief, and yours from the emotional parting of a long bond.

 

You don’t tell Karkat that you have four extra copies stashed in your room. You don’t want to ruin the moment.

 

It’s silent for a moment, until you hear him let out a small... giggle? Does Karkat giggle?

 

“Wow,” he whispers, “that, that actually was…really cathartic.” He turns to you with a smile so bright you think Kanaya has some competition on being the most illuminated troll.

 

It’s... surprising? More unexpected than surprising, but it’s mostly just so unbelievably fucking adorable.

 

It would probably be worth bending your back for another few hours decorating more books just to see him smile with that brief amount of joy again. With all of the time he spends hating himself and being pissy, he’s so far back in debt to the smile department. He really needs to pay up the bank before he’s on the run from the police, and you’re more than willing to take on the role to help Karkat avoid confrontation with the smile cops.

 

On  that thought, you’re not much of a smiler either, so you probably have some hella smile funds to pay as well. Karkat’s damn hilarious rants and gestures and the Mayor are probably the only two exceptions that make you able to pay it off.

 

So, throwing things off into oblivion leads to big toothy happy Karkat grins. That’s something new.

 

“Dave!” Karkat’s yell jolts you back out of your thoughts. “You unaware jackass! How much longer until you finally brain shit yourself out of your stupor?” Oh shit, has he been trying to get your attention for a while now?

 

“Yes, crap squatter, you’ve just been mumbling incoherence for the past few minutes and completely disregarding whatever I’ve been saying, which is pretty fucking rude, Dave.” Karkat crosses his arms, and that smile’s pretty much gone. Rest in peace.

 

“Sorry dude, I was just thinking,” you say.

 

“Of what?”

 

You can’t just say you were thinking about things that could make him adorably happy. Be discreet and on topic about it.

 

“Things we could throw off this platform for beneficial emotional release .”

 

-

Thirty minutes later, you and Karkat meet up at the balcony after you two had split ways to alchemize and gather up miscellaneous items that you hope aren’t too important (you doubt used up toilet paper rolls and empty chalk boxes could be that useful anyway). You dump them all into an unholy pile near the edge of the platform.

 

It’s a perplexing mixture of casual boxes and broken cans that were piling up on abandoned corners of the hallways and some other items that look like they were _made_ to be thrown off into oblivion. You see half a **sord** in there and give it a subtle nod. It’s for the best.

 

“So,” you say, “are you ready to get your feeling releasing throwaway session time on?”  
  
Karkat’s already in a wide stance, arms loose but curved on his sides, eyebrows down and a few nubby teeth gnawing on his lip in determination. He looks like a toddler who’s planned to throw the most humongous-ass fit on the last day of kindergarten. You have also never seen anyone with as perfect of a crab pose as he has right now.   


“Dave, throughout my miserable life I have always been prepared to freely throw things and yell in havoc without the consideration that I might get culled or judged in public. My hands are itching to fling the useless pile of debris temporarily residing in front of us, and the only reason why I haven’t yet is because I’m considerate enough to consider your go-ahead.”

 

“And you’re free to get on with it once you stop talking about how much you’d like to get on with it,” you snort. For someone who endlessly complains about how much you talk, he spends a lot of time talking about the concept of doing something until he’s down to describing the atoms of the material instead of actually doing it.

 

You’re pretty sure that if you asked him to kiss you he would go on and on about what the fucking cracks of your so described “chapped beyond recognizability slabs of skin that could be generously called lips” (his words, not yours. You like to think your lips could feel better than that. Even though you haven’t even considered putting on the tubes of chapstick that were offered to you on multiple occasions.) and he would then move onto the topic of your teeth without even a single smooch. Not that it's ever a fathomable thing. Even if it _was_ a fathomable thing, you guess you wouldn’t be impartial to it wait what the hell are you thinking oh hey is that a can soaring off into the sky? How long has Karkat been doing that for?

 

“I’ve been doing it for a few minutes now. I tried to catch your attention but you kept staring off into various parts of your peripheral thinking about shit, so I decided to go ahead because I crave throwing the manifestations of my issues into space and dreambubbles for other versions of me to get smacked with.” He hurls a broken vase up high with a successful “Hah!” and bends down to pick up the sord and give it to you before picking up a troll book he probably deemed terrible literature.   


“I saved the sord for you, though. Thought your ironic ass might want to do the honor.”

 

You push your concerning thoughts aside for now. “I’m touched, Karkat. I can’t believe you cared that much about my ass.”  


“I don’t. I just had enough foresight and common sense to realize that if I threw off the sord, which I alchemized _for you_ by the way, you would throw a baby pissfit about it.”

 

Well, he’s not wrong. You did want to have the satisfaction of throwing one of the best shitty things you made off the meteor with the hopes of it clouting Jack across the snout.

 

You look down at the said thing on your hands, its deep-fried jpeg exterior confusing your brain more than the concept of its near- 2dness. You take a few steps backward, winding up to flashstep to the edge of the railing and hurl the sord off with all your might. It does a comical twirl off and away, sputtering out neon pixels and sbahj comics as it slowly flies away from the meteor. Only Sbahj items would ever dare to defy physics and gravity, and you salute it farewell.

 

Soon enough, the sord manages to exit your periphery as you continue to pick up and hurl objects off the ledge with Karkat, getting into the swing of letting out brief whoops as another item soars away, and a few ‘aw’s and raspberries of resignation as a few throws fail to generate enough force and the item instead falls down to the meteor floor.

 

The pile slowly recedes until you take the last old can and hurl it off. It sails for a meter or two before unfortunately joining its comrades on the roof a building lower down.

 

“Well shit, that was a sad finish. I wanted that can to fly away into the mass of dreambubbles and stars, eventually knocking a ghost on the shoulder with its determined metal exterior. Said ghost would be hella confused as to why a can just hit em, and then they would stare out where it came from and wonder what places of fate took place for this can to make contact, deeming it important and carrying it along as a bleak mysterious sign of something when in reality it was just you and me being irresponsible teens just fucking around.” You say.

 

You really should have thought over saying that you and karkat were ‘fucking around’. Fuck. Words are said and stored into the ‘you say innuendous shit’ jar, which is by now probably just a collection of jars stored in a massive-ass bank of regretted phrases, just waiting to be cashed in.

 

Karkat crosses his arms and pouts. “Well, I’m not considering a finish as pathetic as that to be the end of this irresponsible throw party. I wanted to throw the last thing.”   
  
“Come on dude,” you counter, “you threw a fuck ton more things than I did because of your head start.”   
  
“The head start that was due to _you_ spacing out. I still wanted to throw the can, assbag.” He whines.

 

“Well, we ran out of cans to throw, and unless we fly down to regather the lost stuff we probably won’t be getting any more until the Mayor graciously donates to us some of his precious aluminium brick children.”

 

“Well,” he takes a breath, his brows scrunched up in thought, “if we can’t get more cans, then… I’ll...”

 

You wait, and Karkat’s still holding that expression, eyes flitting from side to side thinking of what to do that would possibly be threatening. You begin to float forward, poking the anger crease and making him look up at you.

 

“Well don’t leave me hanging, what’re you gonna do? My ass can barely take the punishment.” Fuck. Why you. Fuck you. Why must you say this.

 

“I’m going to take your scrawny physique and haul you off the balcony.”

 

You place your hands under your chin, raising an eyebrow as to question his strength.

 

“Yeah!” He confidently states, and right away you can see through his shit and tell that he thinks he probably can’t carry you, which is probably false as all hell.

 

You’ve seen Karkat without his sweater once or twice, which is a rare sight. He’s mostly soft adorable pillow, but you’re pretty sure you’ve seen a few muscles when he turns a certain way. You don’t doubt that he can carry you, but you’d rather pretend that you think he can’t than willingly submit to unironically being carried away bridal style.

Karkat shoves you out of your muscle thoughts and drags you down to facial level, pointing a rough and chewed nail to your chest.

 

“Hey, don’t doubt me. I can pick up your entire lightweight being and fling it off the meteor without hesitation _or_ the aid of zero gravity. I can lift you up with one arm and flawlessly carry and deposit you anywhere I want to!”

Uh huh, sure you can, Karkat. Follow your dreams.

“-I just don’t want to do it right now. Because despite me being perfectly capable of doing such, I’m graciously choosing not to do so, because I’m not feeling up to it. I don’t need to prove to you that I can carry you just to teach that smug smile of yours a lesson, and if I were to do it, it would be of my own accord at a perfectly unpressured and ordinary time to do such.” He lets you go, and you continue to float in a sitting position as he continues to try and defend himself. “And since I feel like I don’t want to do it right now, I’m not going to do it and instead I want to put this throwing end on hiatus and go back to watching movies until the mayor gives us one more can, which I will then throw since that was the original thing that I wanted to throw.” He gives a final nod to himself for affirmation and begins to turn around, read to head back in.

 

Well, if he says that he can carry you, what about you carrying him?

 

Karkat whips his head back to you with wide eyes and a distinct bewildered frown, which you endearingly dub as the “Karkat thinks ‘you did _not_  fucking say that’ face.”

 

He narrows his eyes, taking a slow step away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

 

“Hear what?”

 

“You mumbling about carrying me.” You didn’t even notice you said that out loud.

 

“Well, why not?”

 

“Because!” he huffs. “I'm not keen on getting eerily close with you by being carried around like a pathetic grub in the unreliable hands of an inexperienced lusus!”

 

You discreetly float closer. “That’s a pretty brisk excuse, dude. We get all eerily close and personal whenever it’s movie time; I don’t see why carrying makes such a drastic difference. What’s a bridal carry between bros?”

 

“Considering your clumsiness and my weight? A ‘bridal carry between bros’ might- no, not might- _will_ end up on the floor after you carelessly drop me and crack my fucking pan on the pavement!” He flips you the finger, showing a slightly chipped nail. “Like I said, the day you carry me is the day I fucking perish.” He closes his eyes and huffs in finality, where you take your chance.

 

You fly down and use your arm to scoop up his legs while your other arm reaches up to catch and support his back. He lands cradled against your chest with a screech along the lines of “OH YOU SHIT-FUCKING _WEED-_ ”, kicking his legs out of your grasp and leaving you to slow down time for a miniscule amount to hook your arms under his armpits before he blows shit at you for actually dropping him on the pavement.

 

He really needs to amp up on trust exercises more. You wouldn’t do anything to put your best friend in peril.

 

So when you resume time back to its normal rhythm, you fly stationary, keeping a safe hold on Karkat until his hysterical swears and kicks abate down to a steady low grumbling.

 

“Are you done yet?” You ask. “I mean, if you aren’t, just go right the fuck ahead, I ain’t stopping you from continuing your hilarious shitfit.”  
  
He swings his legs in a fitful kick, jolting you both forward with the momentum before emitting a guttural sigh that reminds you of extremely pissed off babies.

 

“You can go eat your ass if you think I’m ever done with any shitfit at all. They’re all stacked up upon one another like an ever-blossoming mistake, only to go on the most decrepit hiatus when another one begins-” He yawns, a wide jaw opening to reveal a few sharp teeth and maybe a little bit of a foul breath. “-I’m just tired.”

 

Not that you’re one to judge on bad breath; your teeth have only been brushed bare, since the only available toothpaste you’ve managed to alchemize are the cheap airplane goodie bag ones that make your tongue feel like plaster. Sure, they’re small and possibly appealing with their tiny shape that makes collectors go aww and scatter to grab the shiny tubes, but once you put that shit on a single tastebud it goes ahead on its chance to cement over your entire palate, and suddenly the Sahara got ultra fucking jealous of all that dry land that became your tongue and chapped lips.

 

Previously, you weren’t aware of most of this, being long-term stationed in Texas, but Rose filled you in with her one time experience about the one time her mother “seemingly overheard my off-hand mention about visiting Jade and then woke me up to go on a private jet ride to her island,” she gushed to you that time.

 

“It was one of the few genuinely thoughtful things she did,” she tells you, a few days after you landed on the meteor. You couldn't sleep, and Rose kept waking up from nightmares, so she invited you to go for a walk to map out the rock you’d be living on for the next three years. To fill up the silence, you asked Rose if she missed her home, and you both ended up laid out on your backs staring at the sky, thinking about the Earth that was no more.

 

Which is what you’re doing right now, somehow. You don’t remember floating down, but here you are, splayed out on the grimy floor with Karkat pillowing his head atop your stomach, looking at you with sleepy eyes and a soft expression on his face.

 

“Are you done yet?” He mumbles. “It’s been a while. You’ve been thinking _way_ too fucking much today. It’s you and your dumbass brain, pondering too much when you could be, like, here in the moment and shit.” Yeah, shit. You really were scoring a new high score in zoning out, with bonus achievements in remembering the past and making a complete 180 in tangents.  

 

“How long do you think I’ve been thinking?” You ask.  


“I’m sure you can use your useful time powers to figure that out, smartass.” Karkat’s practically whispering at this point. He manages to sink lower into his sweater, which you thought was impossible at this point.

 

“You’re basically making your sweater a cocoon at this point, dude, you need to get some shuteye.”

 

“I’m basically shoving my fist up your ass at this point, so shut the fuck up and let me enjoy a moment of peace. I’m not sleeping,” he adds as an afterthought.

 

“Karkat, I haven’t seen you sleep in over a week.”

 

“Correction, dumbass. It’s two weeks. And firstly, I’ve stayed awake for longer, so it’s perfectly fine.”

 

“Even more reason to get you to fucking _rest_ , shithead.”

 

“Ass-nose.”

 

“Dickbutt.”

 

“Bulgeface.”

 

“Stop giggling, you lethargic fuck, sleeping is a serious matter.”

 

“So is your face being a bulge, Dave.”

 

You might as well just let him have the victory of the last word. You stare up at the recently littered space, and you see the stars.

 

They’re specks scattered across the sky with no distinguishable pattern, kind of like the splats of bird shit on your apartment roof (great comparison. You are the best at making things sound nice.) Space looks more appealing, though, with a sky that isn’t completely black, but instead a blend of dark blues and grays. The stars are grouped together in different forms of shapes that you never saw before, and it’s easy to connect the dots to make constellations on the unfamiliar expanse. You should visit up here more often.

 

“I never got to see the stars until the meteor,” you tell Karkat.

“Why not?” He asks.

“Light pollution and shit. The sky was too bright to see stars. It was mostly just a really weird expanse of darkness with the occasional strobe light across the sky.” Not that you ever spent any time purposefully looking out for stars; tilting your head upward like that exposes your neck and puts you in danger.

 

“That’s pretty fucking miserable,” Karkat marks. “See, that’s why Alternia and the meteor are better. We can actually see stars.”

 

“Alternia killed babies for paint,” you point out. “It isn’t any better than Earth is in terms of murder and hierarchy.”

 

“Well, maybe then it’s just the meteor that’s better.”

 

“In comparison to whatever the hell else, I guess you’re right.”

 

After a few more minutes, you shift your cape forward and manage to swaddle Karkat in the durable cloth, lifting him up and assisting him as you both stumble to his room.

 

His voice breaks through your footsteps’ echoes across the halls.

“Dave.”

 

“Yeah?”  


“Can I tell you something? You have to shut up about it after, though.”

 

“Sure, lay the secrets upon me bro. My body is ready.”

 

“I don’t think you’re that annoying all the time. You’re a stinky fuck. I’m glad we’re best friends.” You almost drop him to the ground, but thankfully he doesn’t notice.

 

He’s glad you’re friends. He thinks you’re best friends. You think you’re best friends too, but hearing him say it so translucently sends chills down your spine and heat up your cheeks and oh shit is this was movies mean when they say butterflies up your ass? You feel like your chest got pumped stock up with air and your guts got turned into noodles, but maybe that’s just the thrill of validation.

 

Fuck, you’re really craving that friendship, huh. Hungry for that camaraderie.

 

“Well shit, Karkat, I’m glad we’re best friends too. We’re fucking BFFsies for life.”

 

You finally manage to reach Karkat’s room, which fortunately has a pile of blankets which he once said were for his all-night reading sessions. You tip Karkat onto the stack with a grunt, and he curls into the fetal position on top of your arm. You manage to gently float-fall as you’re dragged down beside him, uncaptchaloguing your iPod and putting them onto your respective ears.

 

You press play, and the ringing notes soothe your limbs as the thrumming beat washes over you. It’s there where you take the moment to turn to the side and look at Karkat.

 

He’s full out conked and slumbering. His eyebrows aren’t furrowed in his general wary grumpiness, and he’s slightly drooling out the corner of his mouth. You’ve never seen him so unbothered by the waking world.

 

He lets out a snore, and you fight to push down a grin. No one's really around to see you though, so you end up tilting your head upwards and sigh, smiling wide.

 

Haha, he’s adorable when he’s sleeping.

 

Actually, when did he start trusting you enough to just be there with him as he sleeps? You remember the first time you entered his room unsolicited and he yelled at you for not knowing how to knock. You both just got closer, you guess.

 

You’re still staring at Karkat, and you feel another bout of airy wiggles bubble up inside your chest.

 

What the _hell_ is going on with your internal organs and thoughts, right now.

 

A wise decision would probably be to try and confront that soon. Preferably alone, because you wouldn’t trust anyone with whatever the hell is going on in your psyche right now, except for Karkat.

 

But Karkat’s _part_ of this chaotic ass party of confusing emotions, so that’s been batted out of the fucking question. Kicked out of the rebound. Slam dunked into oblivion, and the crowd throws their hats and go wild over the epic goal into repression.

 

So you’re going to push that aside, for future Dave to deal with.

“That” being nothing, because there’s nothing to deal with.

And for now, you continue to look at Karkat’s peaceful face with heavy eyes and listen to the music chiming in your ears.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [anyway heres this chapters song eyy i just like stars yknow theyre rad af](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLOHys8L50M&index=4)  
> [oh and also heres the short playlist i made of this fic](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPHLgyUsZ9TnJPrtQQxXBd4Xcly_aYljz) it also includes the songs for the other future chapters so go listening to it if you wanna because i would fight in battle for the last three songs ngl lmao  
> [also i forgot to add this in but heres some quick bad doods i did for the chapter if you wanna look at that as well](http://notedchampagne.tumblr.com/post/173848862855/fun-writing-tip-if-you-cant-write-a-scene-go) ill genuinely try to get the next chapter out sooner rip awsedtfygvbuhnjkml; but this ones gonna be from scratch too so just in case it takes longer than a month again its just mostly pesterlogs so spoiler alert im gonna die formatting lmao amiright (although jsyall know comments invigorate me with inspiration like no kidding just say im valid and id scale a wall and then write like 500 words for you. wink wink hint cough)  
>  etrfyguhijk other than that happy 612 and remember to self care yall


	4. Karkat ==> DO A MULTITUDE OF THINGS, AND ALSO FALL IN LOVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait lmao anyway i hope yall enjoy

You are _unbelievably fucking comfy_. Additionally, your limbs are currently slumped on the floor, which brings you back to the fact that you are also _supremely_ fucking tired.

Which is hilarious, considering you finally managed to catch up on two whole weeks filled with insomnia and coffee. You’ve almost forgotten what it was like, waking up to the familiar warm mass of your pile.

You arch your back, and stretch your limbs.  
The soft velvet of a blanket rubbing against your back, the sharp edge of what’s probably a book under your arm, a lump of something under your thigh, and a soft…uh.  
That doesn’t feel like part of your pile. Nothing in your pile is supposed to feel wet, save for some spilled nail polish.  
You don’t remember any part of your pile mumbling abysmal nonsense either.

With great effort, you manage to crack open your eyes. To your abject horror, you discover that the arm that you recently stretched is now making very intimate contact with Dave’s face, which also appears to be awake.

The contact isn’t the actual problem, here. You’ve been closer during movie sessions or can building, sticking feet into faces and rubbing hands into each other’s hair. The problem is how he’s holding a smile that makes your chest feel wiggly. That, and his weird ass human tongue is currently out and licking your arm.

Every fucking animalistic instinct in your body is screeching about jumping away, ceasing contact immediately, breaking down and crumbling over how this douchebag with absolutely no sense of personal space is going to vore your skin cells. Or at least how he’s making an attempt to, using his possibly acidic spit as a utility for meat disintegration.

Instead, you question your common sense as you continue to lie there staring at the gross unnecessary contact that is definitely a thing that is taking place right now.

His tongue is soft and wet, and _for some fucking reason,_ all you do is continue to stare at it, instead of, say, moving the hell away.  
His tongue is odd shade of pale pink, further convincing you that humans have some really weird-ass biology.

You know, maybe this isn’t so bad. It’s just a little bit of… tongue contact. This could be bearable. Yes, this is fine.  
Just take your eyes off of his tongue, you’ve accomplished that, congratulations, you can do a simple task, and  
now you’re staring into his eyes.

They’re a deep red color in the near nonexistent light. And gorgeously expressive too, in the rare times when you could see them out in the open. Which honestly isn’t that often, but you’ll take what you can get. He always seems freer without any plastic paneling in the way.

In the meantime, you continue the ongoing staring competition while you contemplate what the hell got you into this mess. That’s a great question to start off your day.

Your voice is scratchy, still dry and rising from your sleep.

“Dave, would you mind explaining what the absolute fuck is going on right now?” you question.

His eyes flick to the side and back, letting out various tones of humming before settling on a shrug. He finally (fucking finally! It wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place!) retracts his appendage. This leaves your arm slathered in bacterial spit that reminds you of Terezi’s frequent licking, except with less of a teal tint and more of a stale Doritos smell. You hope he brushes his teeth.

You wipe the offending spit on his sleeve, flicking his shoulder.  
“Don’t you fucking shrug at me, shitnose, I want to know why you thought tasting my arm was a genuinely smart idea.” You wipe your arm on his cape as well, for certainty. “Not that it ever surprises me much, seeing as your species generally has an average of one brain cell per two people.”

Dave sticks his tongue out again, teasing you with his fleshy abomination. “Don’t question my motives when I’m sleepy and scatterbrained, man. Sometimes a guy’s just gotta do what his monkey brain desires.”

“And your first impulse was to slather my arm in spit, Terezi-style?”

“First of all, there’s no way a little lick could ever compare to the immediate taste machine Terezi’s got going at all times. That’s like comparing an innocent lollipop lick to a fuckwad ransacking the candy store. The quickly dubbed ‘candy vorer’ is out terrorizing the streets, entering the sugar plum fairy’s wonderland and leaving behind eaten dreams and frightened store personnel, rattled to the bone. Kirby’s got nothing on this dude- actually wait fuck no, this dude still can’t top Kirby. This little pink gumball can eat anything and inherit DNA from that shit, and I know I haven’t shown you Kirby yet because we’ve only been able to alchemize Mario Kart from the recesses of code and machinery but I’m telling you, sucking has never been more powerful than in the one-fingered hands of this motherfucker right here-”

You tug on his cape; this has gone on for far too fucking long for you to be dealing with without coffee. Dave seems to snap out of gesturing the form of this ‘Kirby’, and turns to you with a defeated pout that you quickly return with a glare.

“Dave, your original point has been so fucking lost that it’s glitched out and fallen off of the face of this godforsaken rock. It’s gone now, eloping off alongside another part of your dignity and a monstrous chunk of my patience. They’re off leagues away, lost into the abyss that void players use as their hide and cull playground.”

“Okay,” Dave interjects, “but consider that whatever the old point may be is now deemed unnecessary, and that the new point is brought upon,” he lands his finger on the bridge of your nose, “right here. The new point is upon your nose.”

“Do you think I’m supposed to know what the fuck that means?” You swipe his finger off your nose and quickly cover it, shifting so that you can take your other hand and rub your palm onto Dave’s forehead. You two have no sense of personal space.

“It means something that is way too strenuous for me to be elaborating on right now,” Dave says, shoving your arm away and burying his head into the pile.

“We just woke up a decent amount of minutes ago!” You protest. “I’m not going to lie here watching your scrawny ass sleep in my pile. The pile that you contain _no_ permission to sleep in, if I may remind you.

Dave moans some incomprehensible squabble into his pillow. Grabbing a nearby book, you muffle yourself enough to yell some back, and you can hear Dave stifle his laugh.  
Fuck, now you’re thinking twice about smacking him awake with _Two trolls are set up to try and pursue a kismesis, et fucking cetera._ Maybe you could just nudge him until he gets too annoyed about the worn out binding poking him in the side and finally decides to wake up.

It only takes a couple of light book baps until he lets out a mumble of defeat.

“Come on, Karkat, just let me get all nice and cozy in your pile for a bit. It’s comfy as fuck. This pile and I got all close and intimate, we’ve gone on a few dates, we’re taking it slow. Not so slow that it's downright lethargic, just at a steady pace, one pillow and,” Dave picks up one of your favorite novels, flinging it to the side at your dismay, “and shitty novel at a time.” He gives two thumbs up. “Just a couple more minutes. Please?”

_Fuuuuck._ As much as you’d like to deny him his satisfaction, every molecule in your body is strung up and ready to slap yourself if you say no. You grumble and throw another snuggleplane on top of Dave.

“Fuck yes, you’re the best.”

“I wish I could say no to your stupid requests,” you reply.

“But you don’t.”

“But I could!”

“But you could just shut the fuck up for a while and keep saying yes.”

“ _Fine,_ you stench-carrying ass wrangler, I’ll let you sleep.”

Dave hums his acknowledgement, curling into the blanket you gave him. Sticking a lanky arm out, he pats the vacant space beside him in a very evident request.

How the hell is he just so adorably irresistible? Being this vulnerable to the emotion of friendship fucking sucks.

Regardless, you sidle in closer to Dave, leaning over to pick up the book he threw away. You flip to the most recent chapter you were rereading, right before the two protagonists flip pale from a recently pitch move, while the heroine’s moirail was spying in the shadows. After that, it gets to the good part.

Dave wiggles his finger into your side, and you barely contain your squeal. “Are you reading the best friend cheating book?”

“Firstly, it isn’t a ‘best friend cheating book’, ass-nose, it’s _Two trolls are set up to try and pursue a kismesis-_ ”

“ _-and then a whole shitfest of bestie cheating happens, and a whole other paragraph of title shit._ Trolls really are lacking in their creative fluids, you know. It’s a fucking drought in Alternia if y’all are just sitting there naming movies like they’re a detailed liveblog of the plot spoilers. Get loose, get creative, name a movie in less than ten words for fucking once.”

“Big bold words coming from a species that has a band whose song titles are no less than 15 sentences!”

“Lmao, what? What band are you talking about?”

“The Falling Boy, you pedantic couch stain!”

“You’re talking about Fall Out Boy?” Dave pauses to laugh into the pile, radiating shocked amusement.

“Who the fuck told you about Fall Out Boy? Was it Rose? It was probably Rose, wasn’t it. Snarky broad really meant it when she said she’d introduce the vast music genres to you. Do you know MCR now? I can’t believe you’re in your emo phase Karkat, you’re the first alien to go through a teenage music emo phase.”

“Dave, didn’t you say you wanted to sleep? And what happened to that, because the last time I checked, humans don’t argue about music taste and becoming ‘emo’ while they’re passed out on any viable utilitarian device.”

“Hey, you just haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it’s not possible.” Dave counters.

“Anyway,” he resumes, “Humans need a bedtime story, whether it be a popup book or steamy troll romance.” He reaches out to flail his arm before settling on your book page and tapping it with insistence.  
He is so fucking precious.

“Alright, you big wiggler, I’ll read to you.” A comfortable silence ensues for a moment, only broken by the sound of your voice as you begin to read where you last left off. Just when you think Dave is asleep, he voices his opinions to the new chapter and begs you to read some more.  
So this is how you’re going to spend the rest of your day. You’re not complaining.

-

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]  
  
CG: DAVE, WHERE ARE YOU? I’VE BEEN WARMING MY ASS ON THIS COUCH WITH THE POPCORN FOR SO LONG THE BUTTER ON TOP BECAME SOLID AGAIN.   
CG: IT’S NOT ALL SOLID, JUST THE SMALL CHUNKS AT THE TOP THAT THE MICROWAVE WAS TOO INCOMPETENT TO PROPERLY MELT.   
CG: HUMAN TECHNOLOGY IS WIMPY AND UNRELIABLE. WHEN WILL YOU ADMIT THAT TROLL BIOTECH IS SUPERIOR TO SHITTY HUMAN METAL?  
CG: AAAAAAAAUUGGGH.   
CG: DAVE.   
CG: DAAAAVE.   
CG: FINE, I *GUESS* I’LL JUST SIT MY ASS HERE AND WAIT SULLENLY, ALL MISERABLE ON MY LONESOME!  
TG: im coming fucking hold your horses dude theyre all running out of the barn like wild   
TG: uh  
TG: horses  
TG: theyre whinnying and neighing and making those sneeze snort noises that horses make in those country girl movies where the protags name is always some iteration of sarah or sally and inspired a barrage of horse books and and their fanatics  
TG: oh fuck have i ever shown you anything about horses  
TG: does alternia have horses thatd be fucking hilarious if they did  
TG: i think they do right  
TG: hoofbeasts or neighbeasts or some shit   
TG: grazing some alternian grass while a troll cowboy sits on the hoofbeast saddle  
TG: also eating some alien grass   
TG: do you think troll grass is the same as human grass  
TG: didnt you mention your grass was fuckin purple or some shit  
TG: then again ive seen some leaves that were purple  
TG: maybe theyre just different types of grass  
TG: alternian grass and earth grass  
TG: if our grasses are different do you think our foods are diff  
TG: oh wait shit  
TG: yeah that a pretty fucking stupid thing to ask right then  
CG: NO SHIT, TROLL SHERLOCK.   
CG: NO, I DON’T THINK OUR FOODS ARE DIFFERENT AT ALL, DAVE.   
CG: I DON’T KNOW IF YOU KNOW, BUT MY FAVORITE FOOD IS THE UNIVERSAL FOOD KNOWN AS A FUCKING EARTH BURGER.   
CG: THE FOREIGN MOOBEAST MEAT AND ODDLY GREEN FOLIAGE SURELY HOLD A MEMORABLE EXPERIENCE  
CG: ESPECIALLY WITH HOW I'M PROBABLY INCAPABLE OF DIGESTING SUCH A THING  
TG: you dont know if your troll guts are unable to stomach our food yet  
TG: hell *i* dont know if i can eat troll food without horking up a chunk or two  
TG: idk i think yall just kept to your grubloaf and rose and i stuck to ramen and apple juice and whatever the fuck else with a single shared knowledge of popcorn  
CG: ...WHICH IS CURRENTLY WARMING IN THE MICROWAVE FOR THE SECOND FUCKING TIME.   
CG: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT TAKES THAT LONG TO GET YOUR ASS HERE, STRIDER.   
TG: ouch are we back to last name bases now vantas i thought we were closer than that  
CG: WE CLEARLY AREN’T CONSIDERING THE FACT THAT IF WE WERE CLOSER THAN THAT, YOU WOULD ALREADY BE FUCKING HERE BY NOW AND NOT JUST LEAVING ME TO LOOK LIKE A LONELY FOOL!  
TG: aw you know i would never leave you  
TG: cross my heart and hope to die  
TG: heroically or justly noone knows   
TG: i was almost there btw i just took a detour to alchemise human and troll snacks  
CG: AND WHY IN THE UTTER HELL WOULD YOU DO THAT?  
TG: interspecies food tasting  
TG: if i never ate grubloaf and you never ate ramen what are we even doing with our lives karkat  
CG: WAITING TO WATCH A MOVIE.  
CG: WELL, I AM AT LEAST. YOU’RE OVER THERE FUCKING AROUND MAKING SNACKS LIKE A PARTICULARLY INSATIABLE GRUB WHEN WE’RE *PERFECTLY FINE* WITH POPCORN. IT’S THE IDEAL MOVIE SNACK! THERE ISN’T ANY NEED TO ALCHEMISE ANY OTHER FOODS WHEN WE COULD JUST GO BACK TO COZYING OUR ASSES ON THE COUCH.   
TG: damn bro youre in an awful hurry to watch this movie   
TG: whats so special in this one  
CG: IT’S MY FAVORITE.   
TG: oh shit its your favorite  
TG: wait isnt troll 27 dresses your favorite  
CG: AMONGST A FEW OTHERS, YES.   
TG: are we seriously watching 27 dresses again  
TG: come on ive already seen troll katherine heigl scurry inbetween two couple matrimony sessions and fall in love with her curious news reporter seven times  
TG: thats 189 whole dresses  
TG: dont change it though  
TG: hey i see you fucking typing there  
TG: dont you get an inch closer to removing that disk i can feel my karkat senses tingling   
TG: leaning forward to press the husktops sentient fleshy button even though dave already fucking said not to change it  
CG: BUT YOU’RE RIGHT! WE’VE ALREADY WATCHED IT TO THE POINT WHERE WE *BOTH* KNOW THE SCRIPT BY HEART.   
CG: I CAN RECITE IT.  
CG: YOU CAN RECITE IT.  
CG: AND YET, LIKE A FUCKING SHITFACE, I PAID NO THOUGHT TO WHAT *YOU* WOULD’VE WANTED TO WATCH FOR TONIGHT AND INSTEAD PAID ATTENTION TO MY OWN SELFISH DESIRES AS USUAL!  
TG: nope nope nope  
TG: shut the fuck up   
TG: hey stop that i can practically hear you smashing keys corridors away  
TG: nope  
TG: shush  
CG: DON’T SHUSH ME. I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF EXPRESSING CONSIDERATION.   
TG: no you shush and listen to me  
TG: i didnt finish you self deprecating toe eater  
TG: its movie night we shouldnt be wallowing in how much we hate ourselves i thought that was established a long time ago  
TG: blah blah fuck i am karkat and i am the worst because i never considered my coolest bestie dave in the movie night pick  
TG: well guess what i dont mind bumping it up to 216 dress views  
CG: YOU’RE JUST SAYING THAT TO APPEASE MY GUILT.   
TG: nah like sure its cheesy and pretty fucking repetitive but i dont mind its mostly just fun watching you watch it  
CG: WHAT  
TG: what  
CG: WHAT  
TG: what  
CG: LOOK, JUST GET YOUR ASS HERE WITH THE SNACKS AND LET’S ENGAGE IN THE CROSS CULTURAL NUTRITION SHITFEST WHILE WATCHING TROLL BLENDED.   
TG: aw fuck you you changed the movie  
CG: FIGHT ME.   
TG: cant really fight you right now my arms are fucking stuffed with snacks  
TG: i have something to say about that and stuffing snacks but its kinda hard to type one handed  
TG: ill be in the movie room in a sec  
TG: oh your face isnt shitty by the way you have a very choice moneymaker have you ever seen a mirror for once   
CG: YEAH, I’VE SEEN A MIRROR.   
CG: THE LAST TIME I BRAVED A LOOK I WAS FACE TO FACE WITH A FUCKING MESS.   
CG: UNLESS I EARN MONEY THROUGH SCROUNGING WALLETS PEOPLE DROP WHEN THEY RUN FROM FEAR OF SEEING ME, I DOUBT I’M ANSHASDFDJSKDKAL;,ajdincxodm  
CG: hi im karkat and im fucking hot with self esteem issues rip in fucking pieces  


You whip around, attempting to snatch back your palmhusk that Dave unexpectedly swiped from you. Instead, you get pummelled off the couch with snacks of various colors and sizes. You greet the grimy floor with a screech while Dave giggles at his ~hilariously~ clever victory over your embarrassing defeat. How fucking dandy.

Dave tosses your palmhusk to the side, ignoring your indignant cry of alarm. You had that treasured device for a weary three sweeps, and you don’t exactly have a ready spare on hand.

“You shameless, blithering twat,” you begin, “first you leave me sitting for half a perigee looking like a lonely fool, saying you brought snacks as if it was a tantamount repentance, and then you have the audacity to throw my palmhusk?”

“I brought snacks,” Dave chirps back, sitting himself down on the couch. He’s lucky he brought snacks.

“You brought snacks,” you echo.

“I brought your _favorite_ snack,” he tacks on, and you can’t even give a fuck about being mad anymore. He knows your favorite snack?

“I think it’s either pretty fucking weird slash rad as fuck to just go chomp on what’s basically deep fried worms, but shit. I’ve heard of dishes with bull testicles in them, so it seems pretty legit once you think of it, you know. Besides, it’s a meteor with a population of eight, I don’t think any of us care about proper eating procedures, much less anything else-”

He’s still talking. That’s fine, you can just wait until he’s done. Maybe. You do tend to have a limit.

“I don’t really know if it’s your actual favorite, but I saw you chewing them in Can Town a few weeks ago like they came fresh out of Willy Wonka’s factory and you were one of the main protags the inevitably meet their sweet death with the oompa loompas chorusing close behind-”

Mmhm. Yeah. You remember watching Troll Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Does Earth Willy Wonka have the same eerie fascination with Faygo that the Alternian version does? Hopefully not.

“-and I took a guess. But if you don’t like it that totally chill with me,” He continues, “I can go back and alchemize whatever else you prefer or-”

You break off his attempted backtrack with a shoosh from the floor.

“Before you continue and subject my aural canals to another tangential blather, you were right about grubchips being my favorite snack. Now pull me up.”

You lied; your favorite snacks are actually jelly donuts. Grubchips sure as fuck are your favorite snacks now though, simply because he took that amount of effort to try and get what he thought you would like best. He’s just too fucking endearing sometimes.

Dave leans forward to your request, reaching out his arm. Gladly accepting his hand, he pulls you onto the couch, throwing an arm around you for good measure.

“So,” he picks up some human snacks and tosses them onto your lap, “you ready to get your snack on while we watch Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore have a terrible blind date again?”

You’re always ready.

-

“I can’t fucking believe you just ate a KitKat like that what the fuck, Karkat-”

“Well then why didn’t you go and fucking tell me how to eat it properly?”

“You just gotta snap it in half before you eat it dude, it’s just the step cradled between instinct and _common sense._ ”

“Why do you have to break it in half? That’s a completely useless move to make! The KitKat ends up getting digested anyway, so why would you go out of your way making a hindrance to yourself?”

“‘The KitKat ends up getting digested anyway’ I am fucking _wounded_ at the prospect of you saying that. You broke the one and only rule of eating bar candy, the po-pos are here and no one's here to bail us out and it all could’ve been avoided if you just fucking took the sides of the candy and went snap. I’m taking back our broship and throwing away the bff necklaces.”

“Well, you can go fuck yourself with the snapped candy _and_ the shitty necklaces all you want.”

“Fine by me.”

“...You don’t actually mean that about the ‘broship’, do you?”

“Nah, we’re still best bros. I’m gonna be forever scandalized by your crimes, though.”

“You’re so _dramatic_ , what a whiny bulgewrap.”

“Coming from the guy who threw a fit over choking on coffee more than once.”

“It’s a valid complaint! Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing you, I’m just sayi-”

“-shh shut up wait! Troll Drew Barrymore is walking down the stairs to the communal eating hall!”

“Alright, fine, you lovestruck nerd. Placing movies over me, my kokoro is brokoro-”

“-now look, I missed the dialogue. I guess we’ll just have to rewind and keep watching it until I can enjoy this scene with no interruptions whatsoever.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is what you fucking think it is. Now _shush_ , I’m clicking play.”

  
-  


Everything is unbelievably fucking comfy again. This time, though, you’re the only one awake. The grubtop shut off a long time ago, and Dave’s head rests on your leg, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths.  
He looks so soft and vulnerable. You wonder if that’s an overall human thing. You reach out, tossing away the KitKat your hand previously held as a memory of a few hours ago and reoccupy it with Dave’s hair, combing your fingers through his curls. You can see black roots growing through when you peer closely at his scalp. You rest your hand on his head, rubbing strands between your fingers. His hair is so soft and thin. Maybe that’s also a human thing.

Or it could just be a Dave thing. Either way, whether that trait is unique or ordinary as hell, it’s _exclusively_ a Dave thing, and you love it.

He hums contentedly, and your fingers continue to trace his curls, edging down to where you eventually just cup his cheek, stroking under his closed eye with your thumb.

It occurs to you that this is very embarrassing to be single-handedly participating in, and you retract your hand.

The grubtop is too far away to reach without disrupting Dave in some way, and you don’t want to take the risk in waking him up from what seems like a peaceful sleep.

You’ve never heard this room so quiet before. It’s weird, especially since you’re used to Dave’s irritating monotone breaking what could be the constant silence in your life.

He’s silent now though, loose and relaxed in your lap. Your knee feels a little wet. Is he fucking drooling on you?

You take caution to turn his head to the side, tilting it just enough to s-  
Yeah. he’s drooling on you. What a fucking baby.

You let go, letting his head fall back to its original place on your moist sweatpants.

There’s nothing else to do.  
Dave’s hair is so soft.  
It probably won’t hurt if you just… touch it again. You can just take your hand away and deny anything happened if he wakes up.

A full minute hasn’t even passed until you’re off running your fingers through his hair and tracing his alien features.  
You’re back on your bullshit again.

  
-  


This situation occurs the next few consecutive nights, moments of peace wherein Dave finally gets some rest and you amaze yourself with how damn unfair it is that human hair can be so soft. This time, though, you’ve had the foresight to place your grubtop closer to yourself so you can listen to Dave’s most recent playlist while you’re combing your fingers through the curlier strands on the top of his head.

Your grubtop sputters out the beginning notes of a familiar tune, and your breath catches in your throat. You know this one; you listed it as one of your favorites immediately after listening to it for an entire week. The rhythmic beat reverbates in your gut, stringing you along to the tune as the words begin, jutting with importance at every phrase.

_When the night has come_  
_And the land is dark_  
_And the moon is the only light we'll see_

Despite your instinct to stay quiet for the sake of Dave’s rest, you find yourself mumbling along to the memorized lyrics, your volume (naturally) increasing as you get roped into the melody, until you’re casually singing along with only a little bit of inhibition.

_No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me_

_And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh now now stand by me  
Stand by me, stand by me_

You’re smiling now, tapping your foot to the beat as you try to restrain yourself from being any louder than you have to be. Your lungs feel light, full of feeling that spreads to your limbs and tangles with your soul. It’s so _freeing_ , being immersed in something that compels you to take a deep breath and live in the moment instead of worrying about the fears you face in the future.

And it’s a simple song, with a steady melody and a voice like rich coffee. It’s nothing too extravagant, too fast and rushing for you to walk along to. It’s slow and modest, but something about it strikes in such a certain way that clings to your memory and contently marks its place in your life.  
The song fades away, and you hit the pause button to revel in the settling bliss.

“Shit Karkat, you never told me you could sing.”

_Whatthe fuck wasthastsoundwhosaid that ow, fuck,_ the floor doesn’t pay any mercy to your bones, does it? That fucking hurts. You hear a small “oh shit” above you and oh, that was Dave who said that. (Of course it was Dave who said it, who fucking else? You dumbass.) And now you’ve knocked yourself to the floor because you’re a fucking wriggler who gets frightened at the mere prospect of anything sudden.

Dave’s head pops into your view from where you’re holding your throbbing thinkpan, a sheepish smile on his face. He offers out a hand that you gladly accept, climbing back onto the couch and face to face with a much needed explanation.

You cross your arms, leveling him with the most peeved expression that you can muster. “How long were you an audience to my embarrassing escapade?”

“Not long,” he admits, grinning. “But I wish I woke up earlier if I knew you were hosting a secret concert every night.” Clearly he shows no regret.

You groan and bury your face into his cape in a hasty attempt to cover up the blood that rushes to your face. “Fuck _off_ , you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Dude, you were singing like a newly smashed 21-year old belching out _My Heart Will Go On_ like they were Celine Dion, live on stage, except you’re not smashed and you actually sound pretty good.”

Maybe if you groan louder the horrorterrors might feel pity and decimate this entire mortifying situation. Instead, all you get is a bunch of fabric and what could be stale fart air. You settle for sitting up, gurgling frustration and also gasping for breath.

“Thanks, Dave! That sure does make feel an entire fucking unit better upon hearing that I remind you of an inebriated tryhard!”

“Oh shit, I didn’t mean _that_ part, dude.” He looks a bit remorseful now, eyebrows drawn in apology.

“Then what _did_ you mean?” You question.

“That I liked your singing-” You open your mouth to point out that a certain dumbfuck has a particular passion for liking terrible things, but he pushes forward- “No, hey c’mon I can tell you’re about to say something smartassy about me jonesing for bad they’re ironically good things, but I’m being hella honest right now when I say that I _really_ like your voice. Really. It’s all old-spice and soulful and full of the same passion and emotion that you have when you’re prattling on about something that you like, except with better note range and you’re not screaming for the entire time. It’s really cool.”  
His cheeks dust over with red, and he clears his throat and looks down to the side. “So yeah,” he continues. “Completely honest. From the bottom of my heart and the heart of my ass.”

Well, fuck.  
Now you’re struck speechless.  
Dave Strider, dorkiest cool kid that was ever meteor-shot into what once existed as Earth, with a grin as rare as a colorless crystal structure and as enchanting as a siren seadweller, is currently looking like he’s contemplating the benefits of flash-stepping away. He crosses his arms and shoddily attempts to hum nonchalantly, kicking the floor while his exponentially reddening face avoids eye contact. Because he basically admitted that he likes, (no, _loves_ ) your voice.

He wasn’t supposed to be listening in the first place, sure, but you are flipping the metaphorical table, and then spewing shit on the table for the sole purpose of flipping your shit while flipping the table.

Dave likes your pathetic attempt at singing. That fucking asslicker, with a passion to violate your vocal privacy pretended to sleep so that he could listen to you chant your dumb songs without any hint of consent.

But he likes your voice. And to an extent, he might actually like you as well.

Well you shouldn’t be fucking stupid, of course he likes you. He wouldn’t have stuck along responding to your daily vexes to the universe with his infuriating rambles every fucking day if he _hated_ you. It’s just surprising, seeing that he actually _likes_ aspects of your horrid self, despite all evident proof that you deserve to be in the top ten list of To Be Loathingly Detested On. How can he even do that? He just sees little parts that you hate about yourself and finds some decent good in them at a daily basis like he’s being paid gargantuan amounts of money to do so, except he’s not being paid anything and he’s papping up your ego for free.

He’s so good. You love him.

It’s still silent, and Dave begins to move off the couch, his head bent low. Shit, you were quiet for so long he probably thinks he said something wrong and now everything’s going to be terrible and it’s all going to be your fault. You pull at the cape you’re still holding before his ass even leaves the cushion, and grab his hand for good measure.

“Music great,” you declare.

Fuck everything you say.

“I mean, I like music. Your music, I mean. It’s good.”

Fuck everything you even _do_. Dave just laid out emotions instead of repressing them up his tightassed spine and replacing them with a few reserved phrases, and now you can’t even be coherent enough to form a proper sentence? This is such bullshit. You are such bullshit.

On the bright side, Dave’s intentions of leaving are gone, replaced with a brilliant smile. “What was that, Karkat? Sorry, I don’t think I heard you that well. You might have to repeat that a few more times.” Cheeky bastard, he undoubtedly heard you loud and clear in all your embarrassing glory.

“You heard me. Stop smiling like a lactose-satiated purrbeast, you get the point.”

“No, actually,” he grins wider, leaning against you with the intent to get you to admit your deeply set love for his music, “I’m not aware of the point. The point just shot past me like the bucket that appeared when Rose and I arrived on the meteor, except that bucket actually hit you square on like a really determined archer. That arrow be flying by, shooting past the wind until it hits the bullseye of the target and everybody cheers for the person who can make a stick fly with the power of another stick and a string. So I guess that means that the point was the antonym of the bucket, the foil, the striking difference between the balance of a gently balanced pile of rocks. The point completely missed me like the prime opposite of how that bucket hit you. That was funny as fuck, by the way. I’m sorry for laughing at you back then. If I could, I would travel back in time just to help you up, even if past you would probably take my gesture of help as an insult and reject my hand anyway.”

“Apology accepted,” you mutter, burying your face into his shoulder. He smells of sweat.

“And just to satisfy your ever-growing demand for validation,” you add, “yes. I love your music. It’s creative and stimulating and I download all of your songs and listen to them when you’re supposedly asleep, but I guess I can never be sure of that now, can I.” At least your words are half muffled through his shirt sleeve.

“Nah, I was snoozing, getting my well needed beauty sleep-”

“- You don’t look that beautiful when you sleep-”

“- What? No way, I’m fucking flawless. Sleeping beauty got nothing on my sexy snoozing. She’s all jealous because now she just gets to grow old and become one with the vines while the prince who was originally aiming for her turned a full 180 and headed curving for me instead. That prince is currently riding on majestic horseback, nest of a hair and nubby horns flapping in the imaginary wind as he yells fucks to defeat the dragons and shit that protect me from seeing my one true shitty fanfiction love. I’m gorgeous and you know it.”

“Your so called “gorgeousness” decreases by the mile with every germ-infested glob of spit you drool onto me.”

“And that sounds like a you problem.”

You look up from his shoulder and waggle your favorite digit in front of his face.

“It most definitely _is_ a me problem! You’re slobbering all over my leg every chance your unconscious self gets! If you had some fucking functional ganderbulbs, you would notice that not everyone has a magically cleaning fancy pajama pair, you astute, infantile, preposterously tiny meowbeast.”

Silence ensues, but you can hear Dave’s growing smirk booming in your ear.

It suddenly occurs to you what you just called him.

“Did you….” He stifles a laugh, “Did you fucking call me a _kitten?_ ”

“Shut up,” you counter. “I intended it to be ruder than that.”

“Oh yeah, being called a tiny kitten sure hit the spot. Totally bruised my ego here,” he drapes himself backward, using his cape to mimic wiping a tear from his eye. “I don’t know how I will ever recover from this searing hot burn. My own mother disowns me in shame. Everyone within a five foot radius is obliterated from the scandalous k-word. Obama senses my pain and forbids all baby cats from ever existing again.”

He giggles while you poorly stifle your scream against your sweater. You are so fucking done.

Warm skin meets your cheek with a gentle pap, and there goes your innards running buck wild again. Everything is stupidly overemotional and complicated again.

“Alright bro, calm down. I appreciate the tender insult. It’s going right in my books for ‘best things Karkat Vantas ever said.’”

“You’re damn welcome,” you grumble. You slowly uncover the sweater from your eyes and come face to face with Dave, his shades pushed up onto his head and looking at you with a blissful, calm look on his face. His eyes are scrunched up on the corners in joy and there’s a small tooth gap amidst his clearly visible smile. He’s so damn _ethereal._

You smile back, an unguarded grin that leaves you feeling vulnerable and raw.

“So would you be willing to sing for me now?”

Goddammit.

  
-  


After a multitude of songs and embarassing stage displays, you’re left stroking Dave’s locks (again) while he uses your lap as a pillow, asleep with certification this time.

You two end up in this position so much it’s almost a routine by now.

Your limbs are weighted with exhaustion, but it doesn’t prevent your mind from wandering over today’s events. 

Cross-cultural taste-testing, incredibly close proximity that stills your breath and loosens the tension in your muscles.

And despite refusing to sing in front of an audience, you did so anyway. Participating in “karaoke” as Dave calls it, gradually losing all sense of inhibition while he applauds by your side.

He currently mumbles incoherence onto your thigh. What a fucking goofball, leaving you to   
_oh_  
_oh shit_

You said you loved him, didn’t you. Not said, you idiot, thought. The definition still remains the same, though, in any form.

Is love too strong a word for now? Dave’s your best friend. You almost instinctively associate him with joy and ease, with banter that’s infantile enough to make you laugh, and warmth that curls around your face and gut when he laughs in return, with some extra change. It’s so fucking satisfying to see him happy.

You aren’t sure if this is love yet, but you have some time to figure it out.

Your eyes close and you settle your hand in his hair, too tired to continue moving.

You _really_ fucking like Dave, to the horrorterrors and back.

One miniscule part of you hopes he feels the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for this chapter there are [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwZNL7QVJjE) [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qV5lzRHrGeg) hooray congratulations i love music lmao thats basically how i came up with this fic asdfghjkhfg
> 
> also [heres the link to the art in the fic](http://notedchampagne.tumblr.com/post/177662430585/dumb-promo-for-my-fic-lmao-yall-thought-i-forgot) if you wanna drop a like or so it means a hecka lot
> 
> hopefully the next chapter wont take as long and hey feel free to leave a comment i tell the whole af truth when i say they make my day like i swear i body slam the nearest pillow and yell about it if you do but other than that thanks for reading remember to self care yall


	5. Karkat ==> LAUGH. BE RIDICULOUS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am _so_ sorry for the huge hiatus lmao but hey! updates here i hope yall enjoy

Over the past few wipes, music has surprisingly edged its way into becoming a casual routine for you. It’s not as often as the time you spend in Can Town or watching movies with Dave (which happen on a near-daily basis, filled with constant construction and bickering), but it _is_ continuous enough that when you’re constructing the library your claws begin tapping out a beat on top of the cans. Dave’s snort interrupts your steady tempo, and he shoves your shoulder.   
  
“Dude,” he giggles, “you have no sense of rhythm whatsoever. I’m pretty sure you lost it somewhere back in Ikea, and now that poor fucking rhythm is off wandering the halls while it desperately tries to call out your name in search of its mama." 

Alright, here he goes again. You can practically _feel_  the oncoming blather.

 

“-calling out your name, not like you can hear it, because you already finished buying your monthly groceries and you’re already grabbing a giant bug to ride home so that you can finish critiquing the latest movie while chomping down on some Doritos. And then you’re wondering, why the fuck would your rhythm be lost in Ikea while you’re off doing groceries?”

 

How adorable, thinking that you would actually rattle your brain cells wondering about that when you have no fucking idea what an Ikea is.

 

“-That’s just how fucking lost your rhythm is and it’s the one thing that trumps scientists through and through, kind of like how duck quacks don’t echo or why headphones always get tangled in your pocket-“

 

You rest your head on your hands. His hair is getting kind of long; you wonder if he's going to cut it anytime soon.

 

“-separated in an Ikea fifteen billion miles away from you down on Earth, like fucking Rose crying over Jack in the Titanic when there was _clearly_ enough space on that door for the two of them. It’s not that hard just to scooch over and be like ‘hey look there’s enough room for you to not freeze to death’ and then they both would’ve lived happily ever after provided they stay alive and together in the end-”

 

You hum your agreement; that scene was full of _bullshit._

 

Dave stagnates. “Anyway. Point is,” he flicks a can over, “your rhythmic fate is total shit, bro. I can’t feel the soul and spice in your beat, the salt and pepper of your character. It’s as bland as a bare-ass sandwich, just some pathetic slices of bread all wailing for some flavor to their music. Like damn, dude, if they’re gonna get eaten at least provide them the mercy to be eaten to tasty tune. It’s pretty fucking tragic, to be honest. All drummers grieve at the loss of your rhythm. Quiet sobs are heard in the distance,” he pretends to wipe away a tear.

  
(All of that just to trash on your attempt at a beat. What a fucking connoisseur of extended rambles.)

 

“Well _maybe_ your oh-so _remarkable_ sense of tempo can feel the rhythm of my foot in your mouth,” you retort. “Would you like to find out, oh _knowledgeable_ master of all things music?” You wouldn’t ever stick your foot near Dave’s mouth, but he doesn't need to know that.

 

Much to your distaste, Dave ignores your thin threat and scrambles your hair. You halfheartedly bat his hand away.

 

“Not until we’re done with community service, dumbass. Helping out the Mayor comes before anything else.” He gestures in front of you, where The Mayor nods in satisfaction at the new wall he just built.

 

Well. You _did_ promise The Mayor you’d help him finish the library.

 

“Alright,” you sigh. “You make a good point.”

 

“Fuck yeah, dude.” Dave smiles, and then you smile, and then The Mayor comes by to pat you both on the backs for your good, hard work and places more cans onto your lap.

 

-

 

You manage to have a couple minutes of cooperation filled with the constant taps of stacking cans, until you notice that Dave’s shoulders are shaking in a way that you recognize as him holding in a laugh. You take your time to lean forward and prod his cheek, resulting in a high wheeze.  
  
“Dave, what the fuck are you laughing about?” You glance around the room for any more hidden phallic trees or crude comics, but all you see is The Mayor. He’s rather adorable, diligently stacking one can atop another as he makes the second side of the movie/skating park, to both yours and Dave’s suggestions. The Mayor pauses to look at you, tilting his head in curiosity before resuming his job.   
  
You prod him again. “Is it The Mayor? What’s he doing that’s amusing enough to make your lungs lose their shit?”

 

Dave badly muffles another snort in his hand, shaking his head.  
  
“No, nah, it’s not The Mayor dude, it’s just. It’s this fucking thing.” He resumes his wrack of giggles, keeling over in laughter, and you wait for him to regain some semblance of control over himself.   
  
Finally, he turns to face you, showing you the can in his hand.

 

The can itself is shiny and neat, with nary a dent to worry about. It’s the label that’s half torn off that stands out, perfectly split in such a way that it now reads “Nut-ter.”   
  
Nutter.

 

Fuck, that's hilarious.

Have you _really_ spent so much time with Dave that you’ve begun to take on his unbearably abstract sense of humor?

On the other hand, maybe you’re just laugh deprived, and your pan took the opportunity to experience joy in the form of wheezing out every inch of air in your lungs. Maybe it’s both. You do your best to restrain yourself, gurgling out protests as you avoid looking directly at the nutter can.

 

You end up laughing your guts out anyways. It’s not even a full minute before you’re both keeling over and knocking over buildings, holding your aching guts.

 

When you both settle down to a breathy snickering you end up gazing at each other, the last remnants of a chuckle dwindling down into a contented sigh. (You can see your own lovestruck expression in his shades.)   
  
  
“You’ve infected me with your absurd humor, Strider.” You remark.   


Dave shrugs, still smiling as he stands up. A couple more cans scatter, to The Mayor’s dismay.

 

“That’s the plan- one day we’re just going to have completely identical senses of humor. If amusement had DNA scientists could take that shit and be like ‘damn, Houston, these two humor bones are completely homogeneous’ and then they’d flip their shit onto tables to flip those tables while flipping their shit. Shit’s flying fucking everywhere, the floors would look like if toilets had an eject function, just turning into temporary fountains, spurting out various liquids and defecation-” you interrupt him with a whap to the arm, before things trailed on to any more revolting descriptions.

 

He sticks his tongue out and holds out a hand, helping you up.  
“And all the while, we’d just be chillin’ together because I’ve completely tainted your crabbiness with Strider cooties, the side effects of which include an ironic sense of humor and biznasty comic appreciation. Get ready Karkat, because soon you’re gonna start realizing that sbahj is a literary masterpiece. And maybe Twilight might not have been the “pinnacle of media” as you had once thought-”   
  
“Fuck _that,_ ” you dictate, showing him your favorite finger. “No amount of exposure to you could ever convince me that Twilight is anything _other_ than a wondrous work of artistry. Additionally, the day I don’t consider SBaHJ as pure shit is the day I finally become a rainbow drinker and grow ass wings to fly me to human Dismaland.”   
  
Dave extends his hand, wiggling his fingers. “You wanna bet on it? The economy’s currently dead, but if I can make an SBaHJ comic that makes you laugh I get to choose the next five movies during movie night.”   
  
You snort, stepping forward and taking his hand in a steady shake. A few more cans are kicked away, much to the Mayor’s dismay. He trots over and waves you away, clearly worrying that your careless blundering is going to topple some more unfortunate buildings.

 

With a few apologies and fistbumps, you wave your goodbyes, heading to the only other hangout place you share. A warmth in your palm reminds you that you still haven’t let go of Dave’s hand since the handshake. Should you let go? You hesitantly loosen your grip, and Dave’s hold just tightens as he wings your arms back and forth, gesturing with his other hand.   
  
“I can’t believe the Mayor would kick us out like that, dude. I feel ruined. I’m broken. I’m currently relating to Rose and she saw Jack float down into the ocean. The Mayor, our other bestest bro, just shooed us out like petulant little toddlers throwing a fit in the middle of a mall. Mama Mayor just had enough of Little Timmy and Tommy’s bullshit and swept them off to the kids center so that she can get some fucking peace and quiet for once.”   
  
“Stop fretting all over the hallways, assflash.” You take a left, footsteps echoing down the hallway. “We were fucking around so much the buildings were all in danger of being razed to the ground. The buildings that we took nearly a fucking _sweep_ to make, mind you. The Mayor’s passionate as fuck about his small town, of fucking course he’d want to protect it from any danger.” You take another left, “And that includes us foolishly laughing our asses off and destroying all buildings within a five foot radius.”

 

Dave raises his eyebrow. “Putting aside any laughing asses, you’re saying that everyone protects what they’re passionate about.”

 

“If you want to fucking disregard all the other supplementary things that were critical to my explanation, sure. I guess so. Everyone protects what they’re passionate about.”

 

Your footsteps clack in a steady rhythm against the floor, and the interrupting sound of a distant tittering alerts you to an incoming Vriska.

You aren’t looking forward to dealing with that spiderbitch today. Instead of facing the horrid wrath that is Vriska’s ego-speeches, you tug Dave along and direct him to hanging out in your room instead.

 

“So,” Dave resumes, after the distant laughter ceased, “you’re passionate about your trashy romance novels right? Would you wanna protect them?”

 

“Of fucking course I would, dumb bulge. I couldn’t just leave them to be held in rotten, greasy, nerd-associated hands who have no desire to fully appreciate fine _literature_.” You punctuate this with a smirk, sticking your tongue out at Dave. He returns your fond sentiment with a middle finger.

 

“You know your novels are trashy, that’s why you like them.”

 

Oh, absolutely.

 

“That’s not true, you fuck. Just because I cherish the romantic genre doesn’t mean that I like the trashy ones.”

 

“Admit it, you _love_ trashy novels.”   
  
“Shut your fucking can, Strider, as if _you_ don’t like making ear-agonizing music just for shits and giggles. You’re in no place to judge me.”

 

Dave merely grins, sparing your ears in favor of just replying with a simple shrug. What short silence you had is broken by his musing hum, just as you turn another corner.

 

You know that hum; he’s trying to say something that he doesn’t know how to say, on the account that he’s an emotionally constipated dweeb who you tolerate anyways.  
  
“Alright, spit it out. What type of unfiltered bullshit on your mind has you dawdling now?”

 

Dave continues to be tugged by you. He’s floating higher now, drifting on his back as he speaks, nonchalant but inquisitive.   


“Nah, bro, I was just wondering what else you would protect. If you’d go to lengths to make sure some tattooed trees earn a nice home in your caring arms, you could probably find it in yourself to jump into oncoming traffic just to save a worm or water a flower, a dumbass person, shit like that.”

 

“You could just ask me if I would protect you, you know.” Your door comes into view, a small shine of metal against the drab cement walls.

  
“Really Dave, there’s no need to hide your bullshit when you’re the worst at masking it anyway-” Dave elbows you from above “- _fuck_ , that hurt like a bitch. Don’t elbow me, you asslump, you know it’s true. And yes, just because I’m considerate enough to answer a question you couldn’t bring yourself to ask, there’s a good likelihood that I care about you and would protect you, despite the fact that you’re godtier and can take care of your own dumbass self. Except that you can’t take care of your own dumbass self, because two days ago I just walked in on you eating Doritos and bread for lunch, claiming that it was ‘hella healthy because it has gluten in it’, therefore _forcing_ me to fucking feed you some healthy shit for once so that your own organs don’t collapse in on themselves.”

 

“So if you’d protect me…”  
  
You realize how this pairs in with what you said earlier.

You immediately take it back.

 

Unfortunately, you can’t un-speak what you’ve already spoken, and there’s no use trying to deny what you also subconsciously agree to also be true. Instead, you grunt begrudgingly, letting Dave delightfully bask in the spotlight of validation. 

He awws, placing his head atop yours, tapping his fingers against your forehead.

 

“Holy fuck, might it be true? Karkat “fuck everyone” Vantas is passionate about me? Might I even dare say he's concerned about my well being? My own health? Well Houston, I must say in wonder that it might be so. This shit’s right off the charts, Karkat Vantas _cares_ about me.” You turn your head upwards to find Dave’s face a few inches away, unabashedly grinning. He has a small tooth gap to the side, and if you can peer close through the shades he squints when he smiles.

You shake your head and do your best to act exasperated while you try to frown off a smile of your own.

 

“Congratulations, you managed to wrap your head around the fact that I care about my friends and deeply treasure your companionship, big deal. Don’t take it for granted, you minced ass.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Kat-essenced gremlin.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Kat-kat.”

“How would you fucking feel if called you Ve-Ve?”

“Point taken.”

“Exactly, fuckmunch.”

“...But it’s worth it.”

“Are you shitting me? You cannot be legitimately fucking _serious_.”

“One hundred percent, and now you gotta backtrack your footsteps a bit there, because we just passed your room.”

 

You welcome your room with open arms, heading directly towards your familiar stack of pillows and miscellaneous items. Dave collapses onto a nearby chair while you promptly bury yourself into your pile, exchanging smiles with this needy loser who has your heart in his hands.   
  
Everything is warm and tingly, starting from your gut and racing up to your cheeks. You crinkle your nose and burrow into a nearby pillow.

 

Dave hums. “You wanna just chill for a bit, dude?”

 

You grumble your agreement, and as if he could read your mind, he uncaptchalogues a small speaker from his sylladex and puts up a track that you recognize as one you both mixed a week ago, imperfect but meaningful.

  


_“Can we mix it with Call Me Maybe?”_

_Dave raises his eyebrows high enough to practically kiss his hairline, amusement clear in his face. Regardless, you stand your ground._

_“Dude, mixing DMX with Carly Rae Jepsen is bound to end in a disaster worse than throwing one candy bar into a midst of hungry toddlers. They’re literally so different that you can’t even compare them to each other, it would be like trying to find the difference between a sea angler and the color pink. They’re not even the same species within the universal music genre-”_

_“-And that’s what’s great about it!” You clap a hand over his mouth, and use your other hand to eagerly wave at the possibilities._

_“Look Dave, see it as a chance for us to actually get along with a similar goal, where we both attempt to stupidly see how far we get to making a successful melody out of two contrasting songs. If all goes well, we have fun and get to revel in our success at making a track that fucking slaps, and if all goes fucking terrible, you get to ironically enjoy the newly-made abomination while I contemplate my life decisions. If anything, it’s a win-win for you.”_

_He turns his head to the side, chewing on his lip before turning back to you with a twinkle on his shades and a look that you already know means “fuck yeah, let’s rock it.”_

 

(In hindsight, what you supposed was a cliche twinkle on his shades might have just been the reflection of the light emitting from the husktop.

Anyway, moving on from reminiscing about the recent past.)

  


“You know,” you begin, “this song is admittedly one of my favorites.”

“What, this one?”

 

“No Dave, an entirely _different_ song that we aren’t listening to as of this moment.” You roll your eyes so far back in your head you can see your thinkpan pulse. “Yes, dumbass, the one that we mixed together a while ago. Despite every logical thinking possible, the two songs merged together really well.”

 

“You have me to thank for that. You did jack shit when it came to mixing them together.”

“May I remind you that it was my idea in choosing those two specific songs? I’m certain that in some unfortunate alternate timeline, I miraculously never spoke up and _you_ ended up with another work in progress that you know will forever lie unfinished-”

“- that’s not true, I finished that fresh prince ringtone for you-”

“-after I sat down on your cape and refused to move until it was done!”

 

“Sitting on my cape was kind of a dick move, by the way. I’m pretty sure it’s forever imprinted with your ass now, like the Karkat ass-indent hall of fame. Starring the one and only Karkat’s Fucking Ass. Tickets sold out just for everyone to see the massive douchebaggery that was this grumpy grey smurf, rubbing his ass all over my clothes like he was marking it up before going to the dog park. Actually, can we pretend I didn’t just insinuate you pissed all over my clothing because you definitely didn’t, not that I know of, not that you also should piss on my clothing. Or any clothes, really. I hope trolls are potty trained for this shit-”

 

“ _What._ In the everloving _hell_ are you fucking going on about. Of course trolls are potty trained, you petulant fuckstump! In all honesty, I’m surprised humans had to be taught by their lusii to _not_ lie in their own filth.”   
  
“Come on, dude, dont talk shit about babies. They’re just hungry little flesh mammals, they don’t know shit about hygienic etiquette.”

“And through the state of your breath, you clearly never learn either.”

“Okay, first of all, have you been fucking smelling my breath? That’s a bit weird, Karkat, not gonna lie-”

“O- _KAY,_ what happened to just ‘chilling’?” You push yourself up from your pile.

“Is it just _inevitable_ that whenever we have a conversation, we just keep straying so off topic we end up talking with no reasonable subject whatsoever while getting in nose-rubbing proximity to each other? Is this but a matter of course for the nature of Dave and Karkat? Are we really just so incapable of ‘chilling’, that we find it necessary to fill the comfortable silence with our bond-and-bicker bro times?”

 

You don’t even notice that Dave’s moved off his chair to sit next to you until you lose your sight in favor of being muffled by very red cotton. You feel his arms wrap around you and it’s almost laughable on how quickly you’re pacified, all overflowing energy sputtering out into aimless trains of thought.

 

Dave pats the space between your horns. “You were getting a little bit too heated over nothing in particular there. I guess I had to stop it.” Yeah, you kind of were. Look at you, being embarrassing as always.

Dave speaks up again, his amusement clear in his voice even through the muffling of fabric, “Also, you started the conversation first. I was completely fine with just chilling.”

 

The universe is laughing at your assfoolery.

 

When put out of the context of penis ouija, being bundled in Dave’s cape is actually quite comfortable. You adjust the cape around yourself until your head just barely pokes out, and you lean back on Dave’s shoulder. He reciprocates the action with a light arm resting around your shoulders and a hand positioned inbetween your horns.

 

Instead of drifting off into the swirl of soft notes and warm capes like you expected yourself to, you get jittery as the songs pass by. You’re feeling that strange twist in your chest again, that - _pull-_ that compels you to spin out of the snug cape handle and sway to the beat- and- is this what dancing is? Is it this colossal wreck that encourages you to twirl, with the potential for both embarrassed disaster and windswept elation?   
  
Something tells you that you’re bound to combust if you just continue sitting here when zeal is rushing through your veins.

 

You contain said zeal to your steadily tapping foot.

 

Said tapping foot abruptly stops when Dave leans aside to pause the song.

(And it’s one of your _favorites,_ the one with light chimes that seem to sparkle, and right when it was about to reach the _chorus,_ what the fuck Dave.) You’re left hanging.

 

You’re just about to ask Dave exactly what the fuck did he do that for when he stands up, effectively interrupting your unborn spiel.

 

You both seem to forget that you’re still swaddled in his cape, and you most definitely do _not_ shriek when you’re jolted forward. You brace yourself and close your eyes in preparation for an intimate union between your face and the floor.

 

Instead of meeting concrete, you yelp (fucking embarrassing) when two hands wrap around you mid-fall and lift you back onto your feet.

 

Hesitantly, you open your eyes.

You’re face to face with Dave’s shoulders.

There’s less than an inch of space between you two.

You are so fucking _close_ to him.

 

And yet, you are also so fucking _far away._ Because you’re face to face with his shoulders and you swear you’re going to find whoever’s responsible for making you so _short_ , and you’re going to _throttle_ them.

Fuck being so short. Fuck Dave, for being so averagely tall. While you’re at it, you should probably fuck height differences in general, since they’re _such_ an oh-so wonderful contribution to society.

You know, from this angle, Dave probably thinks you’re staring at his neck like an overly flustered rainbow drinker. You have to tell Kanaya that; she’d find that hilarious.

 

On second thought, you shouldn’t tell Kanaya that.

Why are you thinking about Kanaya? Oh, yeah, it’s probably been a few minutes of close awkward silence between you and Dave, hasn’t it.

 

You are so fucking deep into the pit that you don’t really know the first step to getting out.

 

“So,” Dave says from above.

You look up and oh, he’s kind of cute from this angle. Not that he isn’t always so irritatingly cute, but he has an expression on his face that you could only describe as wriggly.

“So,” he repeats, “do you wanna dance? Sorry for the abrupt standing, by the way, I kind of forgot you were swathed up in my cape for a second there and by the time I was already vertical it was too late and-”

 

Wait, wait. Wait a second. He just asked you to dance?

 

“I mean,” he wavers, “you just seem like you’re holding up a fuckton of energy up in you, like you’re one of those fancy eclairs that cost three times as much as a seven tier cake and some gluttonous baker’s just piping that white cream,uh, filling into you until uh.” He raises his hands up and you smother your face in your palms.

“That got irrevocably dirty and regrettable real fast. That’s not what I meant nor what I intended to say as the initial topic, I fucking promise. I dunno, it’s like we’re off as awkward teens at the middle school prom that the under budgeted PTA organized and there’s a small part of you that’s willing to dance under the spotlight but you don’t know how to and you’re not gonna sacrifice your dignity just to have a step onto the dance floor-”

  
...Does Dave ever notice that he stops his previous tangent just to go on another one? That’s both parts adorable and mildly infuriating (you’ve probably gotten used to most of that by now, though).

Actually, haven’t you started wandering off into trains of thought as well? It’s like you’ve caught onto his bad habit of rifling through dialogue with no real topic to cycle around, trading off on each other’s tangents like they’re cheap collectibles.

 

(Then again, maybe that’s just you; you’ve been annoyingly verbose well before you started hanging out with Dave.)

 

“-but then for some reason as all cheesy highschool movies do you’re somehow caught onto the crowd and before you know it you’re bathed in trippy neon and silly string deciding whether to panic or go with the flow-”

 

His face is closely resembling his outfit, red and making a valiant attempt to examine the far wall. He really looks like he can’t stop, the fucking dolt. The fucking adorable, long-winded, endearing, unbelievable, terrible, terrible, dolt.

 

“-Dave.” He stops in his tracks, ducking his head and playing with the side of his cape. He answers with a small “yeah?”, and _shit,_ you think your blood pusher just melted a bit.

 

"I," you hesitate. Fuck, it's a lot harder to talk when all of the ass-embarrassing dialogue is on you to initiate.  

 

You take a deep breath. "I wouldn't be averse to dancing with you. I mean, I could, but I hope you're fully aware that I'm more likely to make an idiotic fool of myself and crush your feet to dust instead of doing anything that could be considered as 'dancing'."

 

You shuffle your feet. "Yeah, so."

The point, shit-for-brains, get to the point.

"Point is," you begin (again, because verbalizing is easy shit until you're in need of it most), "I'd consider dancing. It's dumb, and I harbor no skill with it, but I’d be willing to.. Do the thing. ‘Make it hapen’, to stupidly quote."

 

You sneak a glance upwards, and Dave's looking at you with the cheekiest smile you've ever witnessed. Fucker.  
  


Said fucker unpauses the music and extends his arms out to you. “Alright, bring it in with the awkward dance moves. No turning back now.”

“I can turn back any fucking time I want, Dave.”

“True, but do you want to?”

 

You stay silent and instead opt for grabbing both his hands, intertwining them with yours before mashing your face into his shoulder to hide the blush that dyes your face. Dave whispers a soft “alright alright alright, taking that as dance time then, time to make like Shakira and prove that hips dont lie” before taking a few swaying steps in tandem with your stumbles.

 

You have no idea how, but the first few awkward (exhilarating) minutes managed to pass by with little disaster. You barely notice that your disgraceful steps and fumbles gave way into both of you delightedly stepping on each other’s feet, laughing with every cheesy misstep. Your face stopped making contact with his shoulder, but a pair of your hands still stay interlocked.

 

It’s extremely fortunate that you’re holding on tight too, because when you trip over a book from your pile with a screech, Dave pulls you up into a surprisingly smooth spin.

 

Behind his shades, you can see his eyes widen in awe.

  
He grins. “That was the smoothest move I’ve ever fucking done.” And he spins you again, and you fall down, dragging him to the floor with you.

 

You don’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of your chest.

 

This is ridiculous. This is _so_ ridiculous.

And yet, both of you are beaming, so it can’t be that bad if you’re being ridiculous with Dave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should let yall know that i wrote the draft of this fic two years ago in my iphone notes app and somewhere along the way in character-fluff scenes became pure self indulgence lmao so. yeah future scenes are gonna be hella indulgent i offer my deepest apologies asdfghjgfds  
> [heres the song for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMc8naeeSS8) which tbh is a Bop and also im gonna try to get the last one or two chapters out before june i cant guarantee it but ill try
> 
> all that aside comments/feedback and kudos make my day (like legit every comment i get i just cannonball into my bed and screech) and if you wanna hmu on tumblr my url is notedchampagne wink wonk  
> remember to self care and take care yall and i hope you have a great day

**Author's Note:**

> heyall first of all this is like my second fic so crits appreciated because i totally dig the concept of improvement as more chapters get published but also validation kills me and dont we all just love a little bit of temporary death inflicted by strange happy emotions lmao  
> secondly this took me over six months to write wtf rip in pieces hopefully the next chapter wont take as long since i got an outline but jsyk im an emotionally dead kid in high school so every positive word urges me to write like 500 more words instead of laying in bed being emo about life lmao  
> lastly hmu at notedchampagne i love occasional talking  
> ps more or less theres gonna be a song for every chapter because i love music and its all for funsies so [heres one for this chapter buds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BSJAAo1uNY) remember to self care and i hope yall have a good day


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